i
ii
The Oklahoma Review
Volume 14: Issue 2, Fall 2013
Published by:
Cameron University
Department of English and Foreign Languages
iii
iv
Staff
Faculty
Advisor
DR.
BAYARD
GODSAVE
Faculty
Editors
GEORGE
MCCORMICK,
DR.
JOHN
G.
MORRIS,
DR.
HARDY
JONES
&
DR.
JOHN
HODGSON
Assistant
Editors
ANGELA
BAUMANN,
AMANDA
GOEMMER,
CASEY
BROWN,
MELISSA
JOHNSON,
NICK
BRUSH,
&
SARA
RIOS
Web
Design
ELIA
MEREL
&
HAILEY
HARRIS
Layout
CASEY
BROWN
Mission
Statement
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v
Cover Art
Katherine Liontas-Warren, “A Lost Culture”
Creative Non-Fiction
10 Megan Vered, “No Feet on the Railing”
Poetry
16 Zarah Moeggenberg, “I Always Cover Their Faces”
17 Rachel Parker Martin, “San Jose”
19 Rachel Parker Martin, “San Jose (Translation)”
21 Rachel Parker Martin, “The Pilgrimage”
23 Phil Estes, “Lost City Road”
24 Phil Estes, “Yahweh out of line”
25 B. Tacconi, “A Blank Converse”
26 Nicole Santalucia, “Kids on the Southside”
27
28
29
30
31
David
David
David
David
David
Galef,
Galef,
Galef,
Galef,
Galef,
“Meeting”
“Difference and Balance”
“Protection”
“Guilt”
“Fostering”
32 Jim Davis, “You Are Your Own Voice Hephaestus”
33 Jim Davis, “Hotcakes”
34 Angela Spofford, “Fish”
35 Angela Spofford, “Weld Country”
36 Jordan Sanderson, “Struck”
37 Jordan Sanderson, “Bolt”
38 Jose Angel Araguz, “Dandelions”
vi
Fiction
42 Phong Nguyen, “Jesus, Unforsaken”
49 Constance Squires, “Wayfaring Stranger”
58 James Brubaker, “Three Television Shows About Familial Love”
61 Rob Roensch, “In the Dark”
Reviews
74 Ashley Galan, “A Review of Stuart Youngman “Sy” Hoahwah’s
Night Cradle and Velroy and the Madischie”
76 Nick Brush, “A Review of Michael Nye’s Strategies Against
Extinction”
Interviews
78 George McCormick, “‘Love Doesn’t Mean You Don’t Have to Go
to the Dentist’: An Interview with Francesca Abbate”
Contributors
86
Contributor’s Page
vii
viii
Non‐Fiction
Megan Vered
No Feet on the Railing
We
entered
the
courtroom
through
the
heavy
double
doors
and,
purposeful
as
High
Holiday
Jews,
moved
en
masse
toward
a
row
of
empty
seats.
No
feet
on
the
railing,
the
small
sign
commanded.
The
sign
failed
to
advise
me
where
exactly
my
feet
ought
to
go,
but
I
did
get
the
message
that
it
would
be
frowned
upon
to
shift
my
feet
up
to
the
railing.
They
would
be
unsettling,
conspicuous.
Could
I
tuck
them
under
me
on
the
seat
of
the
chair
or
did
they
have
to
be
properly
placed
on
the
scuffed
hardwood
beneath
me?
I
looked
around
and
pretty
much
everybody
was
seated
with
feet
placed
on
the
floor.
The
sign
must
be
working,
I
thought.
Otherwise
we
would
all
have
our
feet
on
the
barrier
that
separated
us
from
the
judge.
If
it
had
been
up
to
my
mother,
the
accident
never
would
have
happened.
She
had
been
the
main
driver
since
my
father
lost
his
vision
right
after
they
were
married
and
never
let
anyone
else
drive
her
car.
On
the
way
home
from
an
impromptu
weekend
with
friends,
my
father
coerced
her
to
hand
over
the
wheel.
He
insisted
that
she
was
too
tired
and
needed
a
break.
My
father
asleep
in
the
passenger
seat.
Mom
in
the
back.
The
friend
who
was
driving
blacked
out.
A
beautiful
blue‐sky
day.
No
traffic
on
the
highway.
Mom’s
cherished
turquoise
Cadillac
Seville
launched
headlong
into
a
tree.
No
one
was
wearing
a
seatbelt.
My
father
was
killed
instantly.
No
feet
on
the
railing.
No
discourteous
behavior.
No
pushing
the
limits.
No
going
against
the
rules.
It’s
a
good
thing
that
on
this
murky
January
morning
my
father
was
sixteen
years
dead,
because
he
would
have
pushed
the
envelope,
and
who
knows
how
his
behavior
might
have
affected
this
outcome?
But,
of
course,
the
situation
we
were
facing
was
a
result
of
his
unlimited
appetite
for
rogue
business
schemes.
No
paper
trail
left
behind.
He
took
it
all
with
him.
My
father,
who’d
had
no
intention
of
dying
abruptly
at
age
sixty‐one,
entrusted
us
with
a
complex
trail
of
debt
that
even
his
young,
crackerjack
attorneys
could
not
unravel.
A
flabbergasting
concoction
of
American‐Jewish
intellectual
and
high‐end
horse
trader,
he
was
the
antithesis
of
my
mother,
a
quiet,
constant,
just‐so
Bostonian
who
would
never
let
her
slip
show
in
public.
She
used
to
tell
me
that
after
losing
his
sight,
he
lived
every
day
like
it
was
his
last.
The
exhilaration
of
making
a
deal,
of
recrafting
reality,
was
an
addiction
for
him.
For
my
mother
it
was
an
endurance
test.
10
With
the
loss
of
my
father,
their
house
went
into
foreclosure
and
assets
vaporized.
But,
even
in
death,
my
father
had
a
wild
card
up
his
sleeve.
He
had
purchased
a
$5
million
piece
of
property
in
downtown
San
Jose
that
had
only
just
sold.
In
the
final
analysis
my
mother
stood
a
good
chance
of
becoming
a
millionaire.
The
elderly
judge,
swathed
in
billowing
black,
entered
through
the
back
door
and
marched
to
his
seat.
Will
all
those
present
please
stand.
Please
be
seated.
He
tilted
his
head
to
accommodate
his
bifocal
lenses
and
read
out
loud,
The
following
cases
have
been
approved
unless
any
objections
are
raised:
One,
Leonard
Hesterman,
Three,
Frank
Hernandez,
Five,
Hugo
Barnes,
Eleven,
Norman
Weiss.
He
stopped
when
he
reached
number
thirty‐two.
I
sucked
in
a
huge
lungful
of
air.
The
man
seated
in
front
of
my
mother
shifted
his
body
to
the
side,
arm
draped
conspicuously
on
the
back
of
the
chair
to
his
right.
Could
he
hear
the
pounding
of
my
heart?
Could
he
be
one
who
had
come
to
raise
an
objection,
who
might
demand
more
money
than
my
father’s
estate
could
offer?
I
scanned
the
room
for
hostile
glances,
set
jaws,
pursed
lips.
This
was
still
enemy
territory.
I
wondered
if
my
father
were
to
walk
into
the
courtroom
at
this
moment,
would
he
recognize
us?
Mom,
seated
to
my
left,
was
grayer
and
propped
up
by
a
cane
due
to
ligament
damage
sustained
in
the
accident,
and
all
of
us
more
solemn,
less
innocent.
The
whomp
of
the
gavel
and
the
authoritative
voice
of
the
judge
startled
me.
Hearing
no
objections,
they
are
all
approved.
My
mother’s
attorney,
out
of
his
chair
in
a
flash,
rushed
to
the
judge’s
desk,
where
he
was
handed
a
commanding
stack
of
papers.
Frozen,
I
waited
for
someone
to
raise
a
hand
and
call
out,
I
object!
I
object!
Not
a
soul
came
forward.
My
younger
sister,
Eve,
nudged
me.
Let’s
go.
No
feet
on
the
railing.
Stand
up,
sit
down.
It
was
over
before
it
had
even
begun.
Given
the
way
my
father
lived
his
life
and
the
arduous
wait
for
the
estate
to
settle,
I
expected
high
drama
in
the
courtroom.
I
was
sure
that
the
room
would
be
filled
with
people
demanding
more
than
we
were
offering.
But,
surprisingly,
none
of
those
to
whom
my
father
owed
money
(there
were
over
one
hundred)
even
bothered
to
show
up.
The
night
before,
in
our
hotel
suite
at
the
Crown
Plaza
in
downtown
San
Jose,
I
called
everybody
over
to
my
bed.
Okay,
you
guys,
close
your
eyes.
I
lifted
the
nonstick
backing
off
with
my
fingernail
and
pressed
a
nametag
onto
my
brother
Oran’s
shirt.
Written
in
large
Sharpie
letters
was
Son
of
an
Heiress.
My
sisters’
naturally
said
Daughter
of
an
Heiress.
Mom’s
said
Heiress
Extraordinaire,
and
on
her
small,
gray
head
I
placed
a
paper
crown
adorned
with
plastic
flowers
and
fake
money
that
I
had
created
in
my
office
before
driving
to
San
Jose.
Given
that
her
Hebrew
name,
Malka,
means
“queen,”
it
was
fitting.
The
word
Heiress
was
scrolled
onto
a
magenta
ribbon
that
hung
alongside
her
ear.
She
laughed,
lifting
her
hand
to
straighten
the
crown.
Let’s
just
hope
things
go
well
tomorrow.
They
will,
Mom,
I
have
a
good
feeling.
From
your
mouth
to
God’s
ears.
You
don’t
even
believe
in
God.
How
about
to
Dad’s
ears?
I’m
sure
he’s
listening.
Yes,
well,
if
you
have
a
chance
to
talk
to
him,
tell
him
Mom’s said Heiress
Extraordinaire, and on her
small, gray head I placed a
paper crown adorned with
plastic flowers and fake money
that I had created.
I
will.
Before
the
celebration
lunch
we
had
promised
ourselves—regardless
of
outcome—we
drove
by
the
downtown
property
that
had
finally
paid
off.
Some
developer
was
clearly
on
the
way
to
great
wealth.
Then
to
Dad’s
gravesite
in
the
Oak
Hill
cemetery.
His
grave
was
in
the
Jewish
section
of
the
cemetery,
called
Home
of
Peace.
The
five
of
us
stood
in
a
circle
around
his
headstone.
On
the
gray
marble
was
etched:
In
the
final
analysis
And
beneath
it:
Leonard
Hesterman,
October
1921‐December
1982
“In
the
final
analysis”
had
been
one
of
my
father’s
stock
phrases.
He
used
it
often
during
debates
to
drive
a
point
home.
I
looked
down
at
the
grave
and
said,
You
know
Mom,
when
you
chose
the
wording
for
the
headstone
it
struck
me
as…
Flippant?
Yes,
but
now…
Now,
standing
by
the
grave,
absorbing
all
the
details
that
had
led
to
this
moment,
I
understood.
My
father’s
life
had
been
dedicated
to
evading
rules
and
regulations.
He
had
dodged
the
IRS,
defaulted
on
loans,
and
consistently
left
a
load
of
unpaid
bills
in
his
wake.
Had
he
been
in
that
courthouse
with
us,
his
feet
would
have
been
up
on
those
railings.
He
would
have
nudged
me
and,
in
a
vigorous
whisper,
said,
Beware
of
the
tight
asses,
they
rule
the
world.
In
the
final
analysis,
and
from
beyond
the
grave,
my
father
had
masterminded
a
happy
ending
for
my
mother.
Hopefully
he
could
now
be
at
peace.
12
I
dug
around
in
the
dirt
by
the
wall
surrounding
the
Jewish
section
and
found
a
little
stone
for
each
of
us
to
place
on
the
headstone.
One
by
one
we
knelt
down
and
placed
our
stones
where
years
ago
we
had
cast
a
handful
of
dirt
onto
the
casket.
We
held
hands
and
bid
our
father
one
final,
silent
adieu.
His
reign
as
chief
instigator
had
come
to
an
end.
Mom
said,
Okay,
it’s
time
to
move
on,
everybody.
Let’s
go
find
Grandma
and
Grandpa,
my
sister
said.
We
moved
to
the
other
side
of
the
cemetery
in
search
of
Bubbie
and
Zayde’s
headstones.
Born
in
Vilna
and
Kiev,
my
father’s
parents
were
far
away
from
home.
Mom
was
the
one
who
had
purchased
the
plots
and
remembered
that
they
were
in
the
corner
by
the
fence
under
a
large
tree.
She
remembered
this
because
she
thought
that
Bubbie
would
like
being
in
the
shade.
Finding
no
side‐by‐side
headstones
in
the
corner
and
concluding
that
we
were
turned
around,
we
scattered
in
different
directions
in
search
of
two
headstones
bearing
the
name
Hesterman.
I
passed
Jane
Rosenberg,
1933‐1974,
Beloved
mother;
Bertha
Cohen,
1921‐1975,
Beloved
sister
and
friend;
Arthur
Magid,
MD,
Beloved
father
and
husband.
I
passed
the
grave
of
a
child
who
had
lived
for
a
week.
I
felt
the
tears
of
generations
falling
down
my
cheeks.
But
I
could
not
locate
my
grandparents.
A
maintenance
worker
passed
by
and
I
asked
for
help.
He
went
to
the
office
and,
when
he
returned,
walked
to
the
very
spot
where
we’d
started,
under
the
tree
by
the
fence.
Unwittingly,
all
of
us
had
been
standing
right
on
top
of
Bubbie’s
gravestone.
I
could
hear
her
cry
out,
Shayna
mamela!
You
found
me!
But
where
was
Zayde?
My
brother,
Oran,
the
agronomist,
who
loves
the
earth
the
way
Zayde
did,
got
on
his
hands
and
knees
and
ran
his
hands
through
the
coarse
Bermuda
grass.
It
should
be
right
here.
And
feeling
around
beneath
the
grass,
he
hit
a
hard
surface.
Maybe
this
is
it.
The
worker
and
his
buddy
got
their
shovels
from
the
truck
and
unearthed
the
gravestone,
covered
with
at
least
three
inches
of
sod
and
dirt.
I
could
hear
my
grandfather—who,
in
his
later
years,
had
been
a
diligent
and
loving
gardener—yelling
Veizmere,
cursing
the
shoddy
plot
maintenance.
And
so
it
was
that
after
sixteen
years
of
limbo,
my
mother
became
a
millionaire.
She
went
home
and
purged
hundreds
of
green‐and‐white
legal
envelopes
from
the
file
boxes
littering
the
floor
of
her
guest
bedroom.
She
found
a
real
estate
agent,
bought
a
new
house,
and
packed
up
her
life.
In
the
final
analysis,
she
paid
all
of
her
utility
bills
on
time
and
never
had
to
worry
about
losing
her
power
again.
14
Poetry
Zarah Moeggenberg
I Always Cover Their Faces
I
always
cover
their
faces.
In
orange
traffic
cones
we
overturn,
their
wings
will
give,
their
feet
will
rest
against
bib
overalls.
And
I
use
a
curved
blade,
the
rapid
stroke
up
and
sideways—watch
the
blood
run
a
red
stream
to
quiet.
We
choose
to
slaughter
early,
the
chickens
gray,
the
snow
fluorescent
spills
upon
hay
beds.
They
know
our
steady
boots,
their
rush
of
breath
slithers
up
the
barn
walls
Their
careful
wings
yawn
into
our
palms.
The
first
is
young
and
sleek.
My
son,
he
teaches
him,
his
steady
cluck
the
cone—and
hand
releases
the
careful
spill
of
feather
body,
curl
of
heart,
the
coo
and
tut
of
tight.
Sam
cups
the
cone
between
his
knees,
takes
a
sip
of
coffee,
The
mug
has
made
a
circle
deep
in
shells
of
grains
and
press
of
claw,
in
winter
dirt.
He
works
the
knife
quick,
he
sees
the
blood
run
warm
between
his
hands.
He
smoothes
the
body’s
torque
into
a
calm.
I
count
the
rest—eighteen
today.
I
stay
far
from
the
bulb,
the
stool,
the
cone,
the
bucket.
I
taste
my
Folgers
black.
My
son’s
shoulders
sharp,
a
tense
I
cannot
touch.
16
Rachel Parker Martin
San José
Cuatro
ventanas
que
son
más
grandes
me
envuelven
en
la
luz
extraña
de
la
mañana
temprano,
de
la
fría
diariamente
que
el
sol
debilito
se
muda
como
escalofríos
de
la
ducha
naturaleza.
Soy
el
contorno
como
esas
gotitas
en
un
brillo
apagado
Que
tiene
una
luz
trémula
como
los
dientes
de
los
perros
en
la
calle
iluminado
en
otro
taxi
después
otro
taxi,
con
los
faros
que
separaran
la
distancia
entre
su
lado
de
la
calle
y
mío.
Me
han
sido
revelados
en
mi
silencio,
mi
tartajeo
que
es
mancilla
con
su
ladrido,
el
borrón
de
su
preparación
que
vuelve
ruidoso
con
las
formas
peligrosas
en
sus
sombras
que
calculan
mi
encojo
antes
de
mi
espinazo
puede.
Al
final
del
pasillo
observo
la
forma
de
una
mujer
que
llena
sus
ventanas
con
sus
movimientos,
preciso
y
lento.
Su
cuarto
aparece
tan
grande
sin
estos
pensamientos
a
almacenan,
detrás
de
estanterías
y
maletas.
¿Tiene
ella
sueno
sobre
los
perros
gruñen
y
los
coches
que
matan?
Cuando
la
luz
se
envuelve
su
cuerpo
la
palma
gris
no
vestirla
en
la
carne
de
gallina.
Su
piel
es
una
naranja
ardiente
que
crece
en
el
oscuro
de
su
estómago
brillante
como
luces
de
freno.
(Esto
es
el
fuego
que
yo
busco,
dedos
negros
que
sacan
entre
carnicería
cuneta,
por
encima
de
los
ojos
de
los
perros
que
aíslan
donde
se
esconde
la
mejor
carne:
mi
corazón
carnal.)
Está
en
el
ojo
de
esta
ciudad
bestial
que
será
encontrare
mis
colmillos,
el
coraje
que
formaré
un
charco
con
una
sonrisa
canina,
que
gruñe
por
una
comida
que
quemaré
mi
meollo
Una
vez
que
ha
labrado
toda
mi
brillo
E
iré
marcas
de
zarpas
de
mi
destreza
(Es
la
palabra
más
poderosa
que
esperanza,
Ésta
es
la
escritura
de
mi
evolución)
Entenderé
la
significa
del
brillo
debajo
de
la
piel
aun
si
tengo
que
cortarlo.
Sólo
entonces
puedo
dejar
de
escribir
sobre
mí.
18
San José (Translation)
Four
large
glass
panels
engulf
me
in
the
strange
light
of
early
morning,
the
daily
cold
that
the
weakened
sun
sheds
like
shivers
from
nature’s
shower.
I
am
outlined
like
these
droplets
in
a
bleak
glow
that
glimmers
like
the
teeth
of
dogs
in
the
streets,
illuminated
by
another
cab
after
another
cab,
headlights
that
split
the
distance
between
their
side
of
the
road
and
mine.
I
am
revealed
by
my
silence,
my
stutter
that
is
blackened
with
their
barking,
the
blur
of
their
readiness
that
grows
noisy
with
the
dangerous
shapes
of
their
shadows
that
calculate
my
flinch
before
my
spine
can.
Down
the
hall
I
watch
the
form
of
a
woman
who
fills
up
her
windows
with
her
motions,
precise
and
slow.
Her
room
looks
so
large
without
these
thoughts
to
store
there,
behind
suitcase
and
shelves.
Does
she
dream
of
snarling
dogs
and
murder
cars?
When
the
light
blankets
over
her
body
its
grey
palm
does
not
dress
her
in
gooseflesh.
Her
skin
is
a
burning
orange
that
grows
in
the
dark
of
her
stomach
glittering
like
brake
lights.
(It
is
this
fire
that
I
search
for,
black
fingers
that
pry
between
roadside
carnage,
past
the
eyes
of
the
dogs
that
have
isolated
where
the
best
flesh
hides:
my
carnal
heart.)
It
is
in
the
eye
of
this
bestial
city
that
I
will
find
my
fangs,
the
courage
that
will
pool
with
a
canine
curdling
growling
for
a
meal
that
will
burn
out
my
core.
Once
I
have
carved
out
all
my
brightness
and
leave
claw
marks
of
my
craft
(it
is
the
word
more
powerful
than
hope
it
is
the
sculpture
of
my
evolution)
I
will
understand
the
meaning
of
the
glow
beneath
the
skin
even
if
I
have
to
cut
it
out.
Only
then
can
I
stop
writing
about
me
20
The Pilgrimage
There
is
something
about
languishing
this
way
in
the
gleaming
stillness
of
afterward
where
the
tender
touch
waits
palms
cross
over
knuckles
needing
kneading,
the
quiet
clutch
(We
have
become
unstuck
from
mattress
and
monitor
have
lost
form
and
finitude
I
cannot
tell
if
beneath
your
hands
is
sand
or
stars)
There
is
something
in
the
way
the
wrist
lilts,
the
almost
tremble
over
the
rib
cage
it
is
the
pianist’s
tremor
before
smoothing
his
fingerprints
over
the
ivory,
familiar
and
forgiving,
markéd
prodding
gently
for
the
first
words,
soft
little
breaths,
plucking
out
songbirds
from
slumber;
with
cocked
head
and
quaver,
recognition
laces
the
tongue
and
prompts
the
deep
stretch
of
reunion,
the
comely
warming
of
vertebrate,
like
the
crack
and
the
crumble
of
clay
It
is
here
that
I
find
you,
(When
I
become
lost
in
the
sea
of
myself
limbs
spread
out
across
the
water
while
you
hold
for
me
to
find
the
tide)
Basking
on
the
last
shore
of
the
winter,
peering
into
the
crystalline
still
in
the
permanence
of
punctuation
you
rest
in
sentence
and
semi
colon
lounge
in
the
arch
of
question
and
respite
in
the
great
pause,
the
deep
breath
that
has
become
waiting
for
me
(Is
to
be
possessed
to
be
free
to
tread
water?
My
hands
clasp
and
close,
nebulous
in
the
deep)
When
I
cannot
reach
your
wrist
I
hear
you
in
the
clink
of
can
and
key
car
door
and
glass
bottle
gasp
against
the
mouth
I
carry
you
in
the
taste
of
ink
on
my
tongue
and
I
will
write
you
out
my
lips
through
the
drag
of
fingernails
across
the
chest
beneath
which
the
inkwell
lies
pulsing
(We
share
the
breath
of
our
bodily
script;
we
are
the
buoyant
pages
to
be
bound)
This
is
it,
you
say,
I
find
the
clasp
of
fingers
at
last
shoreline
turns
to
sheets
the
waves
crash
into
keyboard
clicks
and
I
have
returned
to
us,
to
me
your
hand
holds
my
face
like
a
salvaged
stone,
this
is
it
the
beautiful
shudder
of
being
found.
Winter
is
over.
22
Phil Estes
Lost City Road
Alexandria’s
grandfather
draws
maps
for
all
of
us.
“Let’s
make
real
life
easier
with
the
technology
available
to
us.”
He
draws
all
day
in
his
backroom.
Of
the
grandparents,
one
loves
one
set
better.
We
went
out
and
tubed
down
a
river,
into
the
ocean,
then
to
this
island
where
her
other
grandfather
lived
alone,
older
than
the
former.
Alexandria
said
“he’s
a
good
man
but
difficult.”
Mmm‐hmm.
This
old
man
lived
with
a
dog
and
a
big
blue
crow.
The
crow
had
big
sad
eyes
like
armored‐men
in
Japanese
silk‐screen
art,
his
wings
covered
in
paint.
The
old
man
said
he
hasn’t
seen
a
human
in
so
long.
He
just
talks
to
the
big
blue
crow
all
day.
The
crow
cries
rubies
if
you
bully
him.
I
tried
but
he
just
laughed.
Not
because
I
was
funny
but
because
I
was
so
bad
at
making
him
cry.
“Try
again,”
he
said.
“Try
again,”
the
old
man
said.
Yahweh out of line
“Plots
and
schemes
are
the
same
thing,”
Alexandria
always
says.
I
thought
I
had
both,
but
probably
neither,
not
when
the
guy
in
town
with
the
retractable
arm
takes
what
he
pleases.
He
emphasizes
Super
Joe.
“Call
me
Super
Joe.
No
one
will
name
you
themselves,
except
maybe
mothers.”
He
takes
mostly
beers
from
people
with
the
arm,
which
is
metal
piping
that
extends
into
a
garden
snake—not
even
a
python?
C’mon
Super
Joe!
The
claw
at
the
end
grabs
the
beer,
money,
little
statues,
etc.
One
time
Super
Joe
considered
taking
ice
cream
from
a
child
out
on
the
street,
during
Some
Festival,
but
he
knew
that
was
too
much.
I
took
some
money
from
an
old
red
and
yellow
donation
box
at
church;
donations
to
something
we
all
forgot
about.
“That
seems
so
much
worse,”
he
said.
24
B. Tacconi
A Blank Converse
She
sighs
and
says
the
homeless
bum
me
out.
I
look
at
each
indifferent
face
that
drifts
by
thinking
who
would
choose
a
fate
so
full
of
potholes,
concrete,
cracks
and
weeds.
Their
eyes,
so
shallow,
sink
inside
their
sallow
man‐
gled
features.
Nails
compacted
with
dirt
inquire
through
resin‐stained
and
shattered
Tic
Tac
teeth
for
change?
A
smoke?
I
do
not
weigh
myself
with
change,
I
cannot
offer
them
relief.
I
would
give
them
words,
but
they
spend
themselves.
Their
fingers
retract
at
no
return.
She
looks
to
me
to
see
if
I
agree,
I
nod
and
wonder
how
sincere
I
am.
Nicole Santalucia
Kids on the Southside
There
are
little
boys
with
nicknames
like
Old‐Man
Joe
and
Gramps
hanging
onto
the
chain
linked
fence.
It’s
like
they
are
on
the
inside
of
the
belly,
trapped
in
their
own
guts
looking
out.
Their
arms
and
legs
scorched
from
lit
cigarettes
and
car
lighters.
I
don’t
know
how
boys
survive
when
their
hands
are
nailed
to
the
walls
of
Johnson
City,
New
York
where
people
like
me
are
considered
road
kill
for
these
kids
to
play
with.
When
they
crawl
through
the
hole
in
the
fence
they
are
born
again
and
I
can
hardly
breathe.
26
David Galef
Meeting
虎
KO.
tora
tiger,
drunkard.
The
drunkard
eyes
the
tiger,
a
striped
rug
of
an
animal
with
velvet
paws,
glass
eyes,
and
a
smell
like
cat
piss.
The
tiger
eyes
the
drunkard,
a
beast
of
a
man,
hands
groping
at
his
undone
collar
wilted
in
stale
sweat.
Maybe
they
can
be
friends,
hunt
boar,
drink
shōchū,
or
just
prowl
together.
As
they
pad
along
the
street,
one
of
them
growls.
—kanji
entry
4105
*All
definitions
of
Japanese
characters
(kanji)
come
from
The
Modern
Reader’s
Japanese‐English
Character
Dictionary,
second
revised
edition,
by
Andrew
Nelson
(Rutland,
VT,
and
Tokyo,
Japan:
Tuttle,
1974),
though
severely
abridged.
Difference and Balance
差
SHI,
SA:
difference;
variation;
discrepancy;
margin;
balance;
remainder
(in
subtraction).
sa(su)
vt
stretch
out
(the
hands
in
dancing);
put
up
(an
umbrella);
carry
(on
the
shoulder);
build
(a
hut);
stretch
(a
rope);
graft
(trees);
carry
(in
the
belt);
lift
up;
offer.
vi
(the
sun)
shines;
appear
on
the
surface.
sa(shi)
sharpened
tube
for
testing
rice
in
bags.
sa(shi)
de
between
two
persons.
sa(shi)
ruler
(for
measuring);
face
to
face;
hindrance;
sharing
a
load.
28
—from
kanji
entry
3661
Where
to
begin?
What’s
the
balance
or
discrepancy
between
two
variations
close
as
a
bird
hovering
over
its
shadow?
Leave
that
on
the
margin
defined
by
whatever
remains
after
the
hands
have
left
the
body
to
dance.
It’s
like
the
private
penumbra
from
a
parasol
put
up
against
the
shoulder,
Or
the
brute
but
artistic
labor
of
grafting
trees,
stretching
ropes,
and
building
a
hut.
I
carry
an
image
of
you
in
my
belt.
I
offer
a
self‐appearance
while
the
sun
is
minded
to
shine.
I
see
you
and
you
see
me;
Between
us
should
be
no
hindrance.
Come
help
test
this
rice
bag:
measure
it;
share
my
load.
Protection
冗
JŌ
uselessness.
—kanji
entry
625
I’ve
been
called
useless,
but
I’ve
been
called
worse,
a
supernumerary
official
in
charge
of
the
overstock
of
a
paper
company
that
folded
like
last
year’s
origami
in
this
most
redundant
of
towns,
Kubo‐Kubo.
Now
I
patrol
with
a
flashlight
to
see
if
anyone’s
made
off
with
the
unsold
expanse
that
will
never
turn
into
a
smudged
sumi‐e,
a
tedious
tanka,
or
even
a
hastily
scribbled
joke
because
no
one
wants
us.
In
a
way
I’m
protecting
people
from
trash.
Even
uselessness
as
its
uses.
Guilt
汁
30
JŪ,
SHŪ
juice.
shiru
sap;
soup,
pus.
tsuyu
broth;
gravy.
—from
kanji
entry
2485
The
juice
in
my
veins
has
turned
to
miso
soup
thin
as
the
broth
at
the
station
café.
The
sap
from
the
ginkgo
tree
has
trickled
out
and
dried,
shellacking
the
war
monument.
What
you
thought
was
gravy
is
the
pus
from
our
wound,
seeping
from
plate
to
plate.
Fostering
甘
KAN.
ama(eru),
ama(ttareru)
presume
upon,
take
advantage
of,
coax.
ama(nzuru),
ama(njiru)
be
content
with,
be
resigned
to.
ama(yakasu)
pamper,
be
indulgent,
coddle.
ama(i)
sweet;
honeyed
(words);
lenient;
half‐witted;
easy‐going;
soft,
mild;
loose;
trashy,
sentimental.
ama(ttarui)
sugary,
sentimental.
ama‐
sugared,
sweet;
slightly
salted.
—from
kanji
entry
2988
What
was
I
to
do
with
the
child
thrust
upon
me
after
my
sister’s
death,
her
husband
long
gone
elsewhere?
They
presumed
upon
me.
The
girl
had
clearly
been
coddled
as
a
soft‐boiled
egg
or
a
mild
sweet
like
the
agar
rolls
at
the
confectionery
that
quiver
when
the
tray
is
pulled
out.
Yet
how
could
I
not
be
lenient
with
this
half‐witted
five‐year‐old,
easy‐going
as
an
ambling
cart,
sentimental
over
the
loosest
trash?
So
I
have
learned
to
use
honeyed
words,
resigned
to
the
truth
that
sugar
brings
out
sweetness,
even
in
a
slightly
salted
man
like
me.
Jim Davis
You Are Your Own Voice Said Hephaestus
He
would
like
to
speak
with
the
master
of
the
Himalayan
across
the
way,
barking
feverous
rackets
like
thunder
or
a
truck
backfiring
through
a
load
of
rusted
scrap.
Dinnertime
stories
fall
into
the
soup
bowl
where
deaf
ears
float
in
broth
brought
home
from
the
mountain
well,
yarn
lost
to
the
chandelier
if
they’re
lucky,
spun,
the
open
window
where
optimism
is
light
enough
to
unweight
their
assumption,
sufficient
wind
to
carry
them
into
the
night,
twist
about
the
streetlamp,
strangle
then
the
dog.
Cedar
drawers,
they
meet
at
her
house
because
yours
or
his
is
still
on
fire.
The
pipes
have
cracked,
the
nerve
button
punched
and
the
nerves
begin
to
dance,
which
is
at
last
a
type
of
fire.
He
cannot
keep
track
of
all
his
properties
–
the
number
of
strangled
dogs
alone
is
never‐ending.
Shriveled
and
shockingly
ugly,
he
was
thrown
from
Olympus,
fell
through
night
and
into
day,
split
the
clouds
and
came
down
with
a
case
of
two
broken
legs—limits
of
immortality.
Mercurial,
ugly,
and
useful,
very
useful,
Hephaestus
spent
a
lifetime
trying
to
be
worthy
of
the
gods,
there
was
no
time
wasted,
only
the
carved
shined
jewels
of
his
obsession.
When
she
found
him
finally
worthy
of
her
grace
she
said
son
I
am
the
language
of
the
fates
and
he
said
you
are
your
own
voice,
I
am
nothing
but
the
texture
of
quilted
story,
endlessly
crafting
magnificence
from
accidents
improvising
what’s
emerged
from
the
chaos
of
the
earth.
At
this
they
all
laughed
as
a
platter
of
profiteroles
was
passed
around
the
table.
Lime
sherbet.
A
golden
tin
of
cigarettes
to
burn
away
the
stories
as
they
laughed,
as
if,
in
this
case
the
past,
although
abhorrent
and
ugly,
very
ugly,
was
just
the
past.
32
Hotcakes
She
ran
a
radio
station
in
Aurora,
spent
nights
with
the
bass
player
in
a
blues
band
called
Too
Cheap
to
Care.
She’s
a
sometimes
hairdresser,
he
works
for
TSA,
stops
daily
into
the
diner
for
coffee
and
raisin
toast.
They
met
through
a
realtor
who
called
them
both
about
the
briar—we’d
sell
it
by
the
thorn,
he
said,
if
only
we
could
shed
the
bulk
of
what
we
own.
In
the
din
of
the
diner
you’d
hardly
notice
his
eastern
European
accent,
not
until
he
spoke
about
his
grandchildren
and
laughed.
One
of
them
moved
to
Holland,
eats
sardine
paste
and
crackers
with
cheap
wine.
This,
he
said,
is
a
different
outlook
altogether.
From
the
window
you
can
see
the
stumps
uprooted,
tangled
undersides,
cities
of
wood
lice,
earthworms,
a
kaleidoscope
of
spiders
and
their
mild
poisons.
The
frenzied,
uneven
with
age
and
origin,
are
among
the
everyday
revelatory.
She
cooked
for
him
once:
blue
moons
of
purple
boiled
potatoes,
sautéed
with
scallions
and
rosemary.
Their
story
is
every
story.
He
remembers
which
breast
he
preferred.
She
wanted
to
kiss
on
the
Ferris
wheel
when
the
fireworks
went
off,
and
more.
When
they
paid
in
coins
I
believed
I
was
missing
my
life.
His
pants
were
too
tight
and
short
on
buttons,
so
he
cinched
them
with
a
belt
and
cool
nonchalance,
you
could
see
the
whites
of
his
ankle
socks.
She
was
beautiful
and
small,
ready
to
spit.
He
coughed.
She
sang
like
a
canary
from
his
finger.
They
were
in
her
apartment
when
the
river
flooded.
When
the
sun
came
up
the
flood
became
a
cloud.
No,
he
said,
this
is
the
beginning
–
you
are
too
beautiful
to
spill
your
coffee,
which
means
of
course
I
must
be
dreaming.
Sizzle
on
the
griddle,
smoke,
pale
suns
bubble
and
flip,
drown
in
syrup,
pads
of
butter
among
the
stack.
That’s
all
I
ever
said,
she
said,
I
didn’t
mean
anything
by
it,
she
said,
as
I
held
the
door
and
led
them
out
into
the
rain.
Angela Spofford
Fish
Elizabeth
caught
a
fish
and
she
set
that
fish
free,
watched
it
tumble
to
ocean.
Every
summer
I
cast
lines
to
canals,
salinity
concentrated,
my
eyes
burning
upon
splash,
because
there
is
no
closing
to
water,
the
world
only
blur.
I
have
jumped
from
the
dock
and
I
have
seen
dolphins
catching
redfish
leaping
and
I
have
cut
my
fingers
on
hooks,
salt
and
blood
in
my
mouth.
Two
summers
ago
sand
trout
flooded
the
canals,
fed
by
the
Laguna
Madre,
and
I
kept
trout
in
my
freezer
for
months,
driving
from
Texas
to
Mississippi
with
dry
ice
and
a
cooler.
The
fish
swarmed
the
bottom.
I
will
always
keep
the
trout,
their
shimmer
lined
along
the
measuring
stick,
the
water
hose
rushing
pieces
of
them
back
to
water
as
splashing,
blood
and
salt.
34
Weld Country
In
August
she’ll
grow
tomatoes
but
here
is
this
doormat
in
dirt,
this
plot
of
land
at
her
step,
these
spilled
buttons
melting
quick.
Things
have
really
gone
awry.
She
Nancy
Drews
her
way
across
the
ground,
through
gravel
and
grass,
a
flashlight
in
one
hand.
She
will
find
and
so
she
hunches,
a
shoe
undone,
dangling,
a
dragging
of
her
heel.
She
should
see
clues
here
in
the
soil
before
the
sun
sets
and
the
day
breaks,
long
before
the
boog‐a‐loo,
the
gypsum,
the
electric
sliding
of
twilight
to
dawn
and
all
the
lights
go
out
and
her
flashlight
shades
to
dark.
She
should
land
in
a
neon
motel.
She
should
consider
what
happens
when
she
collects
the
hair
clippings,
the
letters,
the
bits
of
herself
and
finds
something
of
yours
as
she
crawls
back
inside
the
trailer,
her
arms
full
and
bearing
lost
pieces.
Jordan Sanderson
Struck
Even
before
the
bite,
he
spent
too
much
time
in
the
artificial
light
of
the
shack
where
they
kept
snakes
at
the
local
zoo,
a
small
operation
where
people
waited
for
peacock
eggs
to
hatch,
waited
to
see
fresh
feathers
spread
out
like
Aurora
Borealis.
He
liked
the
temporary
blindness
of
stepping
out
of
the
sun
and
into
the
room
where
boas
constricted
around
rats
almost
too
small
to
squeeze.
He
said
it
was
like
having
venom
spat
into
his
eyes.
Their
black
tongues,
he
thought,
could
taste
both
worlds.
Once,
he
watched
duck
eggs
waddle
in
a
row
down
the
length
of
a
chicken
snake’s
body,
and
he
had
the
urge
to
be
swallowed
whole.
He
was
swimming
across
the
Chickasawhay
when
the
cottonmouth
sunk
its
fangs
into
the
back
of
his
thigh.
Somehow,
he
pulled
himself
onto
the
bank.
When
he
got
out
of
the
hospital,
he
thumbed
through
book
after
book
of
snake
pictures
and
felt
warm
as
a
charmed
bird.
Although
the
bite
was
more
punch
than
caress,
he
basked
in
the
slow
current
of
the
memory
of
raw,
tender
mouth
encased
in
scales.
It
took
weeks
for
the
swelling
to
recede.
36
Bolt
Even
immersed
in
the
most
intense
pleasure,
the
face
aches
and
opens,
eager
to
absorb
the
room’s
close
air
and
strained
light.
Flesh
curls
around
the
pit
of
presence,
too
immense
to
clutch
or
cling.
You
have
jimmied
the
lock
of
the
self
and
rush
in
like
a
looter,
sweeping
shelves
as
if
you
were
the
scarcest
creature
alive.
A
trespasser
in
your
own
territory,
you
crouch
and
crawl.
The
suffering
of
buzzards
fascinates
you,
their
instinct
to
swoop
down
on
the
entrails
of
a
possum
like
gods
to
prayers.
You
say
nature’s
orderly
appearance
comes
from
its
compulsions.
Unable
to
pry
the
boards
from
the
windows
of
your
lover’s
old
house,
you
fiddle
with
what’s
left
of
the
screen
door,
using
the
frayed
wire
to
scratch
a
picture
of
a
crow
plucking
a
worm
from
an
ear
of
corn
between
the
vessels
that
fork
along
the
pale
underside
of
your
arm,
just
above
where
you
can
feel
the
pulse.
Becoming
aware
of
breath,
you
know
only
the
body
is
autonomous.
It
can
carry
on
without
you.
Jose Angel Araguz
Dandelions
As
a
child,
he
looked
at
them
as
being
made
up
of
the
most
beautiful
dust
–
when
he
later
heard
of
man
one
day
returning
to
dust,
he
thought
it
would
be
like
this:
a
head
shaking
with
a
sudden
laughter,
undone
on
the
wind,
dust
lifting
to
the
sky,
specks
outnumbering
the
stars.
38
40
Fiction
Phong Nguyen
Jesus, Unforsaken
Whether
Jesus
Christ
of
Nazareth,
a
minor
prophet
from
the
Hebrew
Bible,
was
a
living
man
or
a
composite
character
from
several
narrative
traditions
has
long
been
the
subject
of
theological
speculation.
The
Book
of
Jesus,
following
Malachi
among
the
minor
prophets,
is
the
primary
subject
of
this
speculation.
Jewish
exegesis
holds
that
Jesus
was
an
Essene,
an
ascetic
reformer
who
opposed
the
exclusionary
laws
of
the
Pharisees.
But
When Jesus invited us
an
apocryphal
book
of
the
New
Judaic
school,
discovered
among
the
to his Seder, he said it
Dead
Sea
Scrolls,
suggests
that,
rather
than
a
reformer
of
Judaic
thought,
would be his last meal
the
prophet
Jesus
envisioned
a
revolutionary
turn
in
Judaism
that
would
before the coming
have
spawned
a
new
religious
tradition
around
the
notion
of
his
crucifixion, but we had
godhood.
no inkling then that he
From
what
has
been
set
down
in
the
Judas
Scroll—written
by
the
apostle
Judas
Iscariot—it
is
clear
that
Jesus’
aspirations
as
a
prophet
exceeded
his
present
place
in
the
Jewish
Bible.
Excerpts
from
the
Scroll,
had meant for us to be
his cannibalizers.
included
below,
show
a
Jesus
ambitious
to
die
on
behalf
of
humanity,
which
he
otherwise
regarded
as
unreedemably
sinful.
***
I
had
just
popped
the
morsel
of
bread
in
my
mouth
when
Jesus
said
it
was
his
flesh.
The
pulpy
mass
on
my
tongue
felt
suddenly
rubbery,
and
the
aftertaste
of
wine
took
on
a
metallic
savor,
but
I
continued
to
chew
out
of
politeness.
The
bread
tasted
fishy
and
thin,
transubstantial.
When
Jesus
invited
us
to
his
Seder,
he
said
it
would
be
his
last
meal
before
the
coming
crucifixion,
but
we
had
no
inkling
then
that
he
had
meant
for
us
to
be
his
cannibalizers.
After
passing
around
the
winegourd
and
the
platter,
Jesus
stood
up
and
said,
“Take
and
eat;
this
is
my
body.”
The
glances
that
stole
around
our
company
were
like
a
weaver’s
needle,
threading
every
face
in
the
room
like
a
stitch.
Nervous
sweat
pooled
on
our
necks.
“And
this
is
my
blood
of
the
covenant,
which
is
poured
out
for
the
many
forgiveness
of
sins.
I
tell
you,
I
will
not
drink
of
the
fruit
of
42
this
vine
from
now
on
until
that
day
when
I
drink
it
new
with
you
in
my
Father’s
kingdom.”1
What
relief!
Jesus
was
only
speaking
in
metaphor.
I
allowed
my
jaw
to
resume
its
grinding
of
the
bread.
I’d
known
Jesus
to
renounce
drink
before,
but
this
statement,
with
its
premonition
of
death,
was
uncharacteristic
in
its
morbidity.
He
seemed
so
certain
of
it;
we
almost
believed,
with
him,
that
on
this
night
he
would
be
crucified.
I
had
just
begun
to
recover
from
his
announcement,
and
to
partake
of
the
other
victuals,
when
Jesus
spoke
again.
He
said,
to
the
twelve
of
us
arrayed
at
his
table,
“I
tell
you,
one
of
you
will
betray
me.”2
I
looked
around.
As
I
surveyed
the
faces
of
Simon,
James,
Thomas,
Thaddeus,
Matthew,
Simon
who
is
called
Peter,
his
brother
Andrew,
James
and
John
(the
sons
of
Zebedee),
Philip,
and
Bartholomew,
there
were
many
flickering
expressions
of
accusation,
guilt,
and
puzzlement,
sometimes
passing
from
one
to
another
in
the
same
face
within
an
instant.
I
had
no
mirror,
but
can
only
guess
that
my
own
countenance
bespoke
the
confusion
I
felt.
Murmurs
of
“Not
me”
and
“Surely
not
I”
passed
from
breath
to
breath.
Our
Rabbi’s
open‐ended
accusation
left
a
hot
fire
of
suspicion
crackling
in
the
middle
of
our
party,
and
the
smoke
that
arose
from
it
choked
our
eloquence.
Instead
of
words,
our
mouths
were
all
drawn
into
puckers,
mouthing
but
not
pronouncing,
“Who?”
“The
one
who
has
dipped
his
hand
into
the
bowl
with
me
will
betray
me.
The
Son
of
Man
will
go
just
as
it
is
written
about
him.
But
woe
to
that
man
who
betrays
the
Son
of
Man!
It
would
be
better
for
him
if
he
had
not
been
born.”3
Jesus
spoke
with
softness
even
as
he
condemned
his
betrayer.
And
I
tried
to
remember,
Was
it
I
who
dipped
his
hand
into
the
bowl,
or
another?
To
which
bowl
was
he
referring?
There
was
a
woman
with
an
alabaster
bowl,
before
the
supper,
who
had
washed
his
feet
in
perfume
made
from
pure
nard,
but
she
was
not
among
our
company
now.
What
does
he
mean?
Tell
me:
is
it
all
metaphor,
Rabbi
Jesus?
Our
senses
slowed
and
limbs
drooping
from
the
wine
spirits,
but
the
spirits
within
us
still
buoyant,
we
sang
hymns
until
our
voices
grew
hoarse,
and
our
throats
tickled
from
drink.
We
stumbled
across
Kidron
Valley,
to
the
Mount
of
Olives,
where
surely,
we
thought,
the
pure
air
and
bracing
cold
would
sober
us.
But
even
in
the
peaceful
starlight
of
the
olive
grove,
where
Jesus
had
led
us,
the
angels
of
paranoia
were
swarming
about
his
head
like
a
plague
of
insects.
1
Matthew 26:26–29.
Matthew 26:21.
3
Matthew 26:23–4.
2
He
took
Peter
aside
and
put
one
arm
around
his
shoulder
confidentially,
saying
slurrily,
“This
very
night,
before
the
rooster
crows,
you
will
disown
me
three
times.”4
Peter
protested.
“I
never
will.
I
would
die
first.”
Those
gathered
nearby
echoed
those
same
words
in
a
repetitive
chorus,
so
that
the
air
was
not
clear
of
our
protestations
for
several
moments.
Jesus
looked
peeringly
at
his
first
apostle
Peter,
then
turned
away,
toward
the
olive
grove.
The
veiny
and
bulbous
spears
of
the
olive
tree
grew
thickly
from
the
trunks.
Roots
and
rocks
overlapped
one
another
on
the
soil.
The
fruit
of
the
tree
itself
ripened
purple
and
testicular
from
every
branch
in
spite
of
the
cold.
Despite
the
tree’s
flowering,
the
spectral
space
that
surrounded
it
appeared
vaster,
more
encompassing
than
anything
the
desert
could
produce.
Feeling
the
mood
darken,
we
moved
on,
guided
by
Jesus
to
the
Garden
of
Gethsemane,
our
wobbling
feet
sore.
In
Gethsemane,
Jesus
sank
further
into
the
abyss.
Seeing
him
wander
that
night
from
darkness
to
darkness,
then
settle
into
that
small
garden
under
a
new
moon,
was
like
watching
a
man
resign
himself
to
quicksand.
He
asked
us
to
stay
behind
while
he
walked
off
to
pray
with
Peter
and
the
two
sons
of
Zebedee.
So
we
idled
in
a
grassy
place,
a
shady
corner
of
the
garden,
and,
numb
with
drink,
I
slunk
in
the
direction
of
sleep.
But
in
my
last
waking
moments,
I
swear
I
saw
the
savior
weeping
into
his
cupped
hands,
head
tilted
back,
as
though
drinking
of
his
own
tears.
When
he
returned
red‐eyed
and
found
us
all
asleep,
he
shook
us
awake.
“What
are
you
sleeping
for?
Couldn’t
you
keep
watch
for
even
an
hour?”
His
eyes
darted
about,
and
his
brow
creased
with
disappointment;
he
seemed
personally
slighted
at
the
thought
of
our
sleeping
while
he
remained
awake.
“Pray
with
me,
so
that
we
do
not
fall
into
temptation.”5
He
walked
away
to
pray
a
second
time,
and,
try
as
I
might
to
stay
awake
and
keep
the
vigil
with
Jesus,
my
body
succumbed
to
the
temptation
of
sleep.
Jesus
woke
me
again,
“Can’t
you
stay
awake?
Why
would
you
want
to
sleep
on
this
night
of
all
nights?”
He
went
around
shaking
the
other
disciples,
until
we
all
sat
propped
up,
bleary‐eyed
and
red‐
cheeked.
He
repeated
this
pattern
the
night
long,
suffering
from
a
frantic
fear
of
being
the
last
waking
one.
4
5
44
Matthew 26:34.
Matthew 26:40–1.
The
last
time
he
woke
me,
he
lifted
me
fully
onto
my
feet.
“Are
you
still
sleeping?
Look,
it’s
almost
morning,
and
I’m
going
to
be
arrested
and
crucified
at
any
moment!”
I
didn’t
know
what
to
say.
I
wanted
to
console
this
unraveling
god,
but
how
can
an
apostle
comfort
his
savior?
When
the
sun
rose,
as
if
on
cue,
a
crowd
came
out
from
the
valley,
brandishing
swords
and
clubs,
calling
out
Jesus
by
name.
I
began
to
wonder
if,
after
all,
the
prophecy
was
true,
I
would
now
have
to
watch
Jesus
crucified,
and
if
one
of
us
would
be
to
blame.
The
thought
was
too
horrific
to
bear:
my
doubt,
his
sacrifice,
our
friendship.
I
embraced
Jesus,
throwing
myself
between
him
and
the
mob.
But
when
I
pulled
back
from
our
embrace,
and
looked
upon
Jesus’
face,
there
was
a
stern
look
in
his
eyes.
I
realized,
too
late,
that
by
trying
to
shelter
him
from
the
crowd,
I
had
instead
revealed
him
to
it.
“Do
what
I began to wonder if,
after all, the prophecy
was true, I would now
have to watch Jesus
crucified, and if one of
us would be to blame.
The thought was too
horrific to bear: my
doubt, his sacrifice,
our friendship.
you
came
for,”
he
said
to
me,
as
though
I
had
given
him
away—as
though
it
were
a
betrayal.
“No,
I
.
.
.”
I
began
to
say,
but
my
voice
was
drowned
by
the
cries
of
the
mob
as
they
swarmed
over
us.
As
they
pulled
Jesus
away
by
the
robe,
one
of
our
number
leapt
out,
drawing
his
sword,
and
sliced
off
the
ear
of
the
high
priest’s
servant.
With
his
free
arm,
Jesus
stayed
the
man’s
hand,
saying,
“Put
your
sword
away,
for
all
who
live
by
the
sword
will
die
by
the
sword.
I
could
call
on
the
Lord
and
he
would
send
twelve
legions
of
angels
to
rescue
me.
But
then
how
would
the
scriptures
be
fulfilled?”6
So
this
was
what
Jesus
had
been
bracing
himself
for—fortitude
in
self‐sacrifice,
inhuman
in
its
proportion,
divine
in
nature.
All
the
wandering,
the
vigils,
the
drink
and
the
song,
the
raging
in
the
darkness.
It
was
a
cleansing,
a
preparation
for
martyrdom.
But
the
nobility
of
this
act
was
lost
on
me;
as
his
friend,
I
saw
only
the
loss
of
him.
No
book
could
ever
replace
the
man.
The
high
priest’s
men
dragged
Jesus
behind
like
a
slaughtered
calf.
He
muttered
to
them
as
he
was
being
led
away,
“Am
I
leading
a
rebellion,
that
you
have
come
out
with
swords
and
clubs
to
capture
me?
Every
day
I
sat
in
the
temple
courts
teaching,
and
you
did
not
arrest
me
.
.
.”7
as
his
voice
faded
into
the
distance.
6
7
Matthew 26:52–4.
Matthew 26:55.
Every
disciple
went
his
own
way,
feigning
indifference
to
the
death
of
our
Rabbi,
lest
we
be
seen
as
his
accomplices.
So
on
throughout
the
day
I
wondered,
Was
I
Jesus’
betrayer?
Was
he
dying
for
my
sins?
The
thought
was
so
troubling
to
my
conscience,
if
I
thought
it
true
I
might
have
hanged
myself
from
guilt.
The
next
time
I
saw
Jesus
it
was
at
the
Festival,
and
he
was
being
paraded
before
the
crowd,
along
with
another
Jesus,
named
Barabbas.
His
clothes
had
been
dirtied
and
shredded,
his
body
bruised
and
bloodied,
but
his
spirit
unbroken.
As
was
the
custom
on
the
day
of
Passover,
Pilate
stood
before
the
crowd
gathered
there
at
the
Festival,
and
made
his
pronouncement
to
free
one
of
the
two
prisoners.
“Which
of
the
two
prisoners
shall
I
release
to
you?”8
he
asked.
The
chief
priests
and
the
elders
went
around
inciting
the
crowd
to
call
for
the
release
of
Barabbas,
but,
in
desperation,
I
called
out
from
beneath
my
hood,
before
any
other
could,
“Release
Jesus
Christ!”
I
repeated
the
chant,
nudging
those
nearby
to
take
up
the
chorus.
A
few
did,
but
the
clamor
was
interspersed
with
hisses
and
curses.
The
two
factions
competed
in
the
volume
of
their
support.
“Release
Jesus
Barabbas!”
the
priests
shouted,
seeking
favor
within
the
crowd.
“Release
Jesus
Christ!”
I
and
a
smaller
number
of
supporters
shouted
in
return.
Pilate
spoke
again,
saying,
“This
one
is
a
murderer,”
pointing
to
Barabbas
with
his
left
hand,
and
then
to
Christ
with
his
right:
“and
this
one
is
a
blasphemer,
who
claims
to
be
the
Messiah,
the
one
true
King
of
the
Jews.
So
who
shall
I
let
go
free?”
“Free
Jesus!”
they
shouted
in
unison.
Pilate
waved
his
arms
until
the
din
subsided.
“Wait,”
said
Pilate.
“There
are
two
Jesuses
here:
Christ
and
Barabbas.
Which
Jesus
do
you
want?”
“Barabbas!”
they
shouted.
Pilate’s
eyes
darted
back
and
forth,
surveying
the
crowd
uneasily.
“Wait,
wait
.
.
.”
he
said.
“Do
you
mean
that
you
want
Barabbas
to
be
freed,
or
to
be
crucified?”
Seizing
my
chance,
I
cried,
“Crucify
him!”
Knowing
how
difficult
it
can
be
to
rescind
an
oath
of
execution,
I
meant
to
incite
the
crowd
to
violence.
The
blood
of
a
murderer
was
now
on
my
hands.
I
cried
out
for
his
death
with
whatever
was
left
of
me.
And,
to
my
endless
gratitude,
the
crowd
took
up
8
46
Matthew 27:21.
the
cry,
and
took
the
lesser
Jesus
away
to
be
tormented.
The
centurions
pushed
the
Rabbi
Jesus
from
the
crowd,
where
he
suddenly
appeared
frail
and
mortal
again.
As
I
came
near
him
smiling,
he
looked
fiercely
upon
me,
saying,
“Judas,
your
betrayal
today
is
far
worse
than
yesterday.
You
have
taken
more
than
my
life;
you
have
stolen
destiny
from
God.”
If
the
Jesus
of
yesterday
had
been
dreary,
paranoid
and
edgy—today’s
Jesus
was
fearfully
blank.
He
had
suffered
incommunicable
torture
and
humiliation,
and
now
there
was
no
pain,
only
the
tingling
of
the
nerve
to
remind
him
of
the
presence
of
his
body,
which
he
could
scarcely
feel.
His
vow
at
our
last
Seder—to
swear
off
wine
until
his
crucifixion
day—was
broken
that
very
afternoon,
when
a
merchant
passed
in
front
of
us
with
bloated
wineskins
hanging
off
his
handcart.
In
defense
of
the
Rabbi,
it
was
the
heat
of
the
day,
and
the
wine
was
thick
and
sweet.
Walking
among
the
dunes
now,
we
wandered,
as
we
once
did,
silently
through
the
land
of
Israel.
We
found
ourselves
entering
Golgotha,
the
crucifixion
grounds.
How
curious
that
our
aimless
stroll
took
us
there.
Jesus
looked
enviously
at
the
figures
hanging
dead
or
nearly
dead
from
the
crucifixes,
one
after
the
other,
marking
the
late
hour
with
the
long
shadows
they
cast
over
the
sand.
Just
then,
Jesus
clutched
himself,
craning
his
head
skywards,
and
cried
up
to
the
Heavens,
“Eli,
Eli,
lema
shamar?”9
He
splayed
his
body
out
upon
a
rock,
as
if
to
die
by
a
stroke
of
the
divine,
but
time
passed
ordinarily,
wholly
unresponsive
to
his
plea.
He
lay
there
quivering,
unsmote.
Hours
upon
hours
did
Jesus
lie
there,
and
finally
his
eyelids
did
close.
I
realized
that
it
had
been
two
full
days
without
sleep
for
the
Rabbi,
and
I
stood
there
watchfully,
letting
him
rest
upon
his
rock.
Suddenly
the
ground
began
to
shake,
and
the
tremors
lasted
for
long
enough
that
the
men
and
women
hanging
from
their
crosses
started
to
cry
out
declarations
about
God.
Jesus
awoke,
too,
long
enough
to
witness
a
guard
look
up
at
the
crucifixes
and
shake
his
head,
saying,
“Someone
important
must
have
died
today,
for
the
earth
to
shake
so
in
anger.”
“It
is
I,”
Jesus
wanted
to
say,
I
could
tell,
but
the
heat
of
his
flesh
would
have
belied
him.
Toward
evening,
the
other
eleven
disciples
came
down
to
Golgotha,
having
heard
at
last
the
news
of
Jesus’
salvation.
“Where
is
he?
Where
is
Jesus
Christ,
our
Messiah?”
they
asked
me,
looking
out
onto
the
rows
of
the
martyred.
9
“My God, my God, why have you spared me?”
He
must
have
changed
a
great
deal
in
a
day.
For
they
did
not
recognize
him
lying
there
with
his
eyes
blissfully
closed,
peaceful
in
his
sleep.
***
Apart
from
the
Judas
Scroll,
there
are
few
mentions
of
the
prophet
Jesus
among
the
apocrypha,
suggesting
that
his
influence
did
not
extend
beyond
the
tribes
of
Israel.
Unlike
the
Book
of
Jesus,
which
focusses
exclusively
on
his
teachings,
the
Scroll
of
Judas
emphasizes
the
story
of
the
prophet
himself,
and
adds
to
our
understanding
of
those
teachings
and
the
role
of
prophecy
in
the
lives
of
the
ancient
Hebrews.
Among
the
prophecies
attributed
to
Jesus
are
the
eschatological,
end‐of‐days
predictions
that
he
shared
in
common
with
the
Essenes
(the
subject
of
several
other
Dead
Sea
Scrolls).
Little
is
known,
though,
about
how
Jesus
believed
the
world
would
end,
and
where
the
souls
would
go
when
divorced
from
these
bodies.
Suggestions
for
Class
Discussion:
Why
did
Jesus
believe
that
God
was
his
Father,
who
wanted
him
publicly
executed
as
a
human
sacrifice?
And
when
it
became
clear
that
he
would
survive,
why
did
he
feel
that
remaining
alive
would
diminish
his
holiness?
What
could
a
dead
Jesus
have
left
behind
that
a
living
Jesus
could
not?
48
Constance Squires
Wayfaring Stranger
Medicine
Park,
Oklahoma
May
18,
2000
It
wasn’t
exactly
rock
and
roll
heaven.
Ray
Wheeler
read
the
spree
of
billboards
crowded
around
the
exit.
Free
ATM.
Live
Bait.
Truck
Stop.
Buffalo
Ben’s
RV’s.
Something
about
rattlesnakes.
He
and
Martin
lowered
their
visors
against
the
mid
afternoon
sun
as
the
Jeep
shot
west.
Medicine
Park,
Oklahoma,
was
close
now,
up
ahead
off
Highway
49,
which
was
off
I‐44,
which
was
off
I‐
35,
which
was
the
road
Ray
had
driven
up
from
Austin
that
morning
and
followed
north
like
a
mighty
river.
It
hadn’t
been
a
bad
drive.
Out
of
the
hill
country,
into
the
plains,
and
across
the
Red
River,
they
had
followed
the
branching,
arterial
highways
with
the
pleasure
of
yielding
to
somebody
else’s
dull
but
effective
argument.
Blasting
from
the
speakers,
Lena
Wells’s
voice
kept
the
horizon
receding
ahead
of
them.
All
day
long
Martin
had
played
her
CD
boxed
set,
Rank
Outsider:
The
Complete
Recordings
of
Lena
Wells
and
the
Lighthorsemen,
1977‐1981,
and
tried
to
educate
Ray
on
Lena’s
career.
Martin
had
grown
up
a
few
miles
from
her
home
there
in
Comanche
County,
Oklahoma,
and
had
a
child’s
fascination
for
the
beautiful
lady
in
the
big
old
house
with
the
loud
rock
and
roll.
He
knew
all
her
songs,
her
lyrics,
interpretations
of
the
lyrics,
even
the
deviations
sung
live
and
captured
on
bootleg
recordings
that
he
sought
out
and
collected.
He
unloaded
all
of
it
on
Ray,
lecturing
him
straight
up
through
Texas,
in
a
voice
trembly
with
pleasure
at
turning
the
tables
on
his
former
professor.
“The
month
of
January
shows
up
on
all
four
albums,”
Martin
said.
“Not
many
people
have
noticed
that.
Also,
blue
Chevys.”
“January,”
Ray
said.
“Blue
Chevys.
Okay.”
These
geek’s‐eye‐view
details
were
new
to
him,
but
for
the
most
part,
he
was
feigning
ignorance
for
Martin’s
sake
and
knew
more
about
the
subject
of
their
upcoming
documentary
than
he
let
on.
Once
the
Lena
Wells
project
was
fait
accompli,
Ray
had
done
the
due
diligence.
He
had
hunted
on
the
internet
and
at
the
library
for
anything
there
was
to
hear,
see,
or
read.
Although
he
hadn’t
yet
read
the
media
kit
that
arrived
the
day
before
from
Lena’s
agent,
Katerina
Davies,
he
felt
like
he
knew
the
dimensions
of
Lena’s
life,
the
topography.
He
had
never
liked
her
music.
What’s
more,
he
loathed
the
recent
rash
of
soft‐focus
hagiographies
dedicated
to
the
played‐out
rockers
of
the
60’s
and
70’s.
Ordinarily,
he
would
have
turned
the
project
down
flat.
But
ordinary
was
over—he
was
in
some
trouble
and
in
no
position
to
say
no
to
a
job.
Martin
said,
“I’m
just
telling
you
in
case.”
“In
case
what?”
“In
case,
I
don’t
know,
that
stuff’s
important.”
“How
could
it
be?”
“She
could
have
killed
a
man
in
a
blue
Chevy.
She
could
have
a
special
memory
of
January.”
“Maybe
she
was
cold
once
in
January.”
“Ah,
go
to
hell.”
Martin
worried
the
frayed
brim
of
his
straw
porkpie
hat.
After
a
minute,
he
said,
“Ray,
I
know
I
kind
of
tricked
you
into
this,
but
it’s
your
show
now.
Besides,
you
said
you
thought
she
could
be
interesting.”
“Maybe.”
When
Ray
imagined
the
shape
of
a
film
about
Lena
Wells,
it
didn’t
look
like
a
typical
rockumentary.
He
didn’t
care
much
about
her
private
story—the
sex,
the
drugs,
the
usual.
And
her
rags‐to‐riches
rise
to
fame,
it
was
too
Horatio
Alger
for
him,
too
David
fucking
Copperfield.
He
just
wondered
why
she
had
retired.
She
only
made
records
for
four
years.
In
that
time,
she
had
invented
a
brand
of
Psychedelic
High
Plains
Rock
that
was
still
synonymous
with
her
name
twenty
years
later.
She
could
have
gone
on
making
music,
at
least
until
the
tide
turned
against
her.
For
most
of
the
eighties
and
nineties,
she
had
been
very
uncool,
too
tied
with
that
seventies
wanna‐be‐Indian
vibe,
that
sex‐and‐righteous‐indignation
camp
that
was
so
easy
to
laugh
at
in
the
more
ironic
later
decades.
In
the
early
eighties,
when
Ray
was
in
college,
liking
Lena
Wells
was
as
verboten
as
liking
the
Bee
Gees
after
disco
died.
It
wasn’t
that
they
weren’t
good.
It
was
just
that
they
were
so—disco.
Same
thing
with
Lena
Wells
and
her
psychedelic
high
plains
thing.
But
now,
in
2000,
Lena
was
moving
into
that
just‐right
category
of
recherché.
Rediscovering
her
catalogue
was
a
mark
of
distinction
among
music
fans
that
prided
themselves
on
championing
artists
the
public
has
pigeonholed.
She
had
gotten
so
uncool
that
she
was
cool
again.
50
Martin
shifted
in
his
seat.
“Come
on,
Ray.
Every
other
musician
of
her
stature
has
at
least
one
documentary
about
them.
At
least
one.
I’m
handing
you
a
golden
apple.”
As
the
Jeep
sped
down
49
toward
the
Wichita
Mountain
Range,
they
passed
most
of
what
the
billboards
had
promised:
a
bait‐and‐tackle
store,
a
truck
stop,
an
RV
park,
while
fencing
ran
along
the
left
side
of
the
road
with
black
and
red
signs
reading
“US
Military
Private
Property
No
Trespassing”
spaced
at
regular
intervals
along
the
fence.
The
other
side
was
lined
with
short,
gnarled
blackjacks.
There
wasn’t
much
traffic;
just
a
few
pick‐ups
and
cars
trailing
bass
boats.
Feeling
like
he
might
have
missed
their
turn,
Ray
pulled
into
the
gravel
parking
lot
of
a
turquoise,
cinderblock
building
with
a
red
neon
Coors
As the Jeep sped down 49
toward the Wichita Mountain
Range, they passed most of what
the billboards had promised: a
bait-and-tackle store, a truck
stop, an RV park, while fencing
ran along the left side of the road
with black and red signs reading
“US Military Private Property
No Trespassing” spaced at
regular intervals along the fence.
sign
flashing
in
its
only
window.
Across
the
highway,
a
defunct
water
slide
was
painted
the
same
shade
of
turquoise.
A
portable
electric
marquee
standing
next
to
the
road
said
“LeVOn’s
Bar‐n‐BaiT”
and
promised
2
4
1
drAws
All
daY.
They
stepped
out
of
the
Jeep
and
into
a
post‐rain
heat
haze
that
gave
way,
when
they
walked
into
the
dark
store,
to
refrigerated,
drier
air
and
a
smell
that
made
Ray
think
of
the
ocean.
A
sports
talk
radio
show
leaked
out
of
a
boom
box
plugged
in
by
the
front
register.
At
a
pool
table
covered
with
a
tarp
in
the
middle
of
the
room,
two
men
stood
gutting
fish.
“Hey,”
called
the
taller
of
the
two.
He
wore
a
University
of
Oklahoma
baseball
cap
pulled
low
over
his
brow,
the
soiled
bill
framing
his
eyes
like
parentheses.
“We’re
a
little
lost,”
Ray
said.
Martin
was
scatting
out
a
drum
solo
as
he
looked
around,
taking
in
the
spooky
taxidermy.
Mounted
on
the
walls
were
lots
of
stuffed
rattlers,
fangs
out,
catfish
the
size
of
the
moped
Martin
drove
around
Austin,
one
shaggy
buffalo
head,
and
a
many‐pointed
buck
with
a
sign
over
his
massive
antlers
that
said,
“Size
Matters.”
The
animals,
the
shelves
and
what
was
on
them;
the
bottles
of
sunscreen
and
bug
spray,
tins
of
Vienna
sausages
and
SPAM,
everything
was
coated
in
a
thick
layer
of
greasy
dust.
“The
highway’s
due
east,”
the
man
in
the
OU
hat
said.
“If
that’s
what
you’re
after.”
He
had
set
down
his
fish
and
was
wiping
his
hands
on
a
paper
towel.
The
other
man,
a
barrel‐chested
fellow
with
a
long
gray
beard
and
oily
braids,
gave
a
fierce
tug
to
the
skin
of
the
large
fish
in
his
hands
and
ripped
it
from
stem
to
stern.
Martin
winced.
Ray
said,
“We’re
trying
to
find
Medicine
Park.
The
Reverb
Hotel.”
“Ah.”
The
guy
in
the
OU
hat
ran
a
hand
over
his
mouth.
“You
must
be
the
guy
that
made
Barking
Mad,
that
professor.
That
document—what
do
you
call
yourself?
Documentarian.”
“I’m
not
a
professor.”
Not
anymore.
He
managed
to
stop
himself
from
explaining
about
his
still‐wet
identity
as
a
guy
without
a
net,
a
guy
with
no
teaching
salary
who
was
going
to
have
to
actually
make
a
living
at
documentary
filmmaking.
But
OU
Hat
didn’t
look
like
he
was
ready
for
that
level
of
intimacy.
“I’m
Ray,
this
is
Martin.
Used
to
be
one
of
my
students.
He’s
my
producer
now.
My
boss.”
Hearing
himself
described
as
Ray’s
boss,
Martin
gave
a
self‐effacing
wave.
“Ooh,”
OU
Hat
wiggled
his
fingers.
“Producer.”
Coming
around
the
pool
table,
he
leaned
against
a
barrel
filled
with
ice,
soda
bottles
sticking
out
like
wreckage
in
a
frozen
sea.
“How
do
you
study
about
movies,
anyway?
Hell,
if
I’d
a
known
you
could
do
that
I
might
a
gone
to
college.”
Asshole.
Ray
smiled
at
him.
“What’s
your
name?”
“Me,
I’m
Levon,
rhymes
with
heaven.
Like
the
sign
out
front
says:
Levon’s
Bar‐n‐Bait.”
Levon
glanced
back
at
his
companion
with
the
long
braids,
who
had
joined
them
at
the
front
of
the
pool
table,
reeking
of
fish,
a
bracing,
almost
pleasant
smell.
“I’m
Cy,”
he
said,
holding
out
his
wet
hand.
Ray
couldn’t
visualize
the
spelling
of
his
name,
heard
him
say
“sigh”
and
felt
how
poorly
the
wistfulness
and
resignation,
the
oh‐mercy‐
me
quality
of
the
word
fit
the
man.
Sigh.
Ray
took
his
wet,
fishy
hand.
In
a
low
voice,
Cy
said,
“Want
to
learn
something
useful?”
Ray
leaned
closer.
“Pardon?”
“A
useful
skill,
something
Levon
here
would
approve
of.”
“I—sure.
Sure.”
Cy
reached
across
the
pool
table,
grabbing
the
edge
of
a
cocoon
of
wet
newspaper
and
pulling
so
that
a
brown
fish
thudded
from
its
folds
onto
the
plastic
tarp.
He
picked
up
the
fish
by
its
tail
and
swung
it
at
Ray.
“You
ever
skin
a
fish?”
52
Ray
let
out
a
loud
laugh.
The
blue
chemical
smell
of
the
wet
newspaper
reminded
him
of
summer
camps
in
Big
Bend,
the
indignities
of
childhood.
“No,
and
that’s
only
half
the
story.”
The
fish
swung
between
them
like
a
pendulum,
and
Cy
smiled.
“You
sure?
You
might
get
hungry
later.”
Martin
took
a
step
back
and
fingered
the
headphones
that
were
perpetually
draped
around
his
neck.
Ray
saw
him
fighting
a
powerful
urge
to
tune
out
of
the
scene,
tune
into
the
throbbing
beat
usually
leaking
from
his
ears
like
the
heartbeat
of
some
scared
animal
whose
fight‐or‐flight
instinct
had
gotten
stuck
in
the
on
position.
Sometimes
Ray
would
edit
reality
in
his
head
the
way
he
edited
his
films.
He’d
go
back
to
the
moment
when
he
said
or
did
something
he
regretted,
or
when
he
didn’t
do
something
he
wished
he
had,
and
he’d
cut
that
scene.
Easy
as
that.
The
string
of
causality
would
change
then,
and
all
would
be
well.
In
his
head.
It
was
amazing,
really,
how
life
could
turn
on
the
smallest
moments.
Pulling
into
Levon’s
Bar‐n‐Bait
was
beginning
to
feel
like
exactly
the
kind
of
scene
he’d
like
to
edit
out.
Cy
laid
the
fish
back
down
on
the
wet
newspaper.
He
hitched
up
one
leg
against
the
pool
table,
blinking
slowly.
“You
nervous—professor?”
he
asked.
“Nervous?”
“About
meeting
Lena?”
Ray
was
nervous
about
the
aggressive
use
of
fish
and
the
overt
display
of
dead
animals
in
the
room.
About
the
inability
of
anybody
to
answer
a
simple
question,
give
some
basic
directions.
He
was
nervous
about
a
big
man
with
long
braids
blinking
at
him
like
a
lizard
on
a
rock,
but
he
was
not
nervous
about
meeting
Lena
Wells.
If
anything,
he
felt
like
he
was
already
on
intimate
if
grudging
terms
with
her.
One
of
his
college
girlfriends,
an
intense
creature
with
pale‐pink
nipples
who
was
always
saying
how
symbolic
everything
was,
had
made
a
Mix
Tape
for
the
him
the
first
time
they
had
sex
and
had
crammed
it
full
of
Lena
Wells
songs.
He
had
hated
her
for
it,
hated
her
for
being
disappointed
when
he
came
before
the
second
chorus
of
“What
the
Thunder
Said,”
and
had
always
irrationally
blamed
Lena
Wells
for
his
lack
of
staying
power.
So
maybe
he
harbored
the
irrational
idea
that
Lena
Wells
owed
him
something.
But
nervous?
Not
really.
“I
am,”
Martin
said.
“She
makes
me
nervous,”
Levon
volunteered,
raking
his
hat
back
and
forth
over
his
head.
“Always
has.
Ever
since
high
school.
I
sat
behind
her
in
Social
Studies.
She
come
in
here
a
few
times
over
the
years.
Sold
her
a
Coke
once.
It
wasn’t
no
big
thing.
Sold
her
a
Coke.
Made
small
talk,
hot
enough
for
you,
we
need
rain,
that
kind
of
thing.
She
gave
me
a
five.
I
gave
her
some
change.
It
wasn’t
no
big
thing.
I
reminded
her
about
Social
Studies.
She
said
she
hated
high
school.
But
not
me—she
didn’t
say
she
hated
me.”
He
looked
off,
seemed
to
relive
the
scene.
Ray
made
a
mental
note
to
come
back
with
his
camera
and
ask
Levon
to
say
it
all
again.
The
story
had
the
well‐worn
counters
of
frequent
telling.
Levon
continued,
“Nobody
ever
thought
she’d
be
back.
Then
some
months
after
she
had
that
meltdown
on
TV,
somebody
up
and
bought
the
Medicine
Park
Inn.
That
place
was
boarded
up
since
the
50’s.
Who
bought
it?
Why,
Lena
Wells.
She
showed
up
with
that
new
baby,
had
her
whole
band
with
her.”
Cy
stepped
behind
the
bar
and
lathered
up
his
hands
and
forearms
in
the
sink.
They
watched
as
the
man
cleaned
and
rinsed
his
hairy
arms.
Ray
was
struck
by
his
complete
absorption.
Most
people
can’t
forget
they’re
being
watched,
but
Cy
seemed
accustomed
to
concentrating
in
the
presence
of
others.
It
was
almost
embarrassing,
watching
him
towel
off.
Finally,
he
said,
“You
can
come
with
me.
Like
Levon
said,
it’s
right
close.”
Beside
him,
Ray
felt
Martin’s
body
release
tension
like
a
punctured
balloon.
They
followed
Cy,
watching
his
long
braids
hit
his
back
like
whips
as
they
emerged
from
the
dark
bar,
back
into
the
white
light
of
the
hot
May
day.
Cy
climbed
onto
an
old
black
BMW
motorcycle
with
a
sidecar
that
stood
in
the
shade
of
the
building
and
roared
across
the
parking
lot
kicking
up
gravel.
He
motioned
for
them
to
follow.
Martin
muttered,
“Sure,
let’s
follow
this
guy.”
Cy
had
swung
his
bike
in
front
of
them.
He
wasn’t
wearing
a
helmet
and
when
he
turned
and
waved,
the
wind
lifted
his
gray
hair
and
suddenly,
Ray
knew
who
he
was,
his
profile
recalling
one
of
live
television’s
rawest
moments,
the
night
in
1981
when
Lena
Wells
effectively
ended
her
career
by
spacing
out
on
The
Tonight
Show.
Ray
had
been
in
El
Paso
with
his
parents,
a
hungry
teenager
walking
through
the
living
room
on
his
way
to
the
kitchen
for
a
late‐night
snack.
He
paused
behind
the
couch
to
see
who
the
musical
guest
was
and
recognized
Lena
Wells
and
the
Lighthorsemen.
Lena
and
her
band
looked
too
road‐weary
to
stand
before
the
shimmering
topaz
and
pink
curtains,
seemingly
airbrushed
in
from
a
windier,
dustier
reality.
They
were
about
a
minute
into
“Rare
Weeds.”
Lena
54
stood
under
the
lights
in
a
blue
suede
halter
top,
sweating,
her
skin
greasy
like
she
hadn’t
bathed
that
day.
She
grabbed
the
mic,
curtain
of
black
hair
falling
across
her
face
and
concealing
the
crisis
for
a
moment
even
as
her
voice
faltered
and
stopped.
Stopped.
Ray
had
grabbed
the
back
of
the
couch,
feeling
the
momentum
of
the
song
surge
into
an
abrupt
hush.
Then the camera got
up under her hair
somehow, went close
on her black-rimmed
eyes and it was like
they were portals into
the Real, some
inchoate timeless
deep, around which
the bright artificiality
of the show turned
shabby.
Ed
McMahon’s
big
laugh,
designed
to
fill
the
odd
spot
of
broadcasting
silence,
sounded,
then
sounded
again,
the
second
time
with
a
downbeat
of
dread.
The
Lighthorsemen
tried
to
loop
back
and
play
the
chorus
again
so
she
could
jump
in.
The
camera
cut
to
Johnny
Carson,
but
he
looked
nervous,
so
it
cut
away.
Silence
spread
like
a
stain.
Then
the
camera
got
up
under
her
hair
somehow,
went
close
on
her
black‐rimmed
eyes
and
it
was
like
they
were
portals
into
the
Real,
some
inchoate
timeless
deep,
around
which
the
bright
artificiality
of
the
show
turned
shabby.
Ray
and
his
mother
and
his
father
said
out
loud
the
lyrics
that
should
have
come
next,
giving
each
other
surprised
glances
as
their
voices
rang
out
simultaneously.
All
across
America,
people
shouted
the
words
at
their
television,
cryptic
lyrics
that
were
on
every
car
radio
that
summer:
If
they
said
you
were
a
flower
Then
you
wouldn’t
interest
me
But
instead
they
all
insist
you
are
One
of
the
rarest
weeds
Everybody
remembered
the
words
but
Lena.
Later,
global
transient
amnesia
became
the
official
diagnosis,
but
in
the
moment
everybody
knew
it
was
the
drugs.
From
the
couch,
Ray’s
mother
said,
“That
girl
is
lost,”
and
took
a
long
drag
on
her
cigarette.
As
the
silence
held,
Ray
wanted
to
snatch
the
afghan
that
covered
his
mother’s
legs
and
throw
it
over
the
television
to
hide
the
shame
they
were
witnessing.
Where
was
the
cut
to
commercial?
Then,
hope.
A
new
sound
and
the
camera
found
Cy’s
serrated
profile,
offering
redemption
with
the
austere
yet
soulful
expression
of
a
frontier
minister
who
has
been
called
upon
for
far
too
many
funerals.
There
he
was
on
lead
guitar,
sidewinding
into
“Wayfaring
Stranger.”
And
singing,
the
agony
in
his
eyes
unfit
for
television.
Ray
realized
that
he
was
changing
the
words
of
the
old
traditional
number,
from
“I”
to
“she.”
She’s
just
a
poor,
wayfaring
stranger
a
travelin’
through
this
world
alone.
What
ensued
was
musical
triage.
The
drummer
and
bass
player
joined
in,
a
topshelf
laugh
boomed
from
Ed
McMahon
and
a
cut
to
Johnny
Carson
showed
him
pulling
a
face,
like,
“All
righty,
then!”
Whatever
Lena
was
doing
stayed
out
of
view
of
the
television
audience,
but
you
could
tell
that
Cy
was
staring
at
her
as
he
sang.
There
was
not
another
screen
shot
of
her
until
the
second
verse.
Then
she
was
there,
her
voice
surging
in
like
turbo
drive
with
I'm
going
there
to
see
my
mother
She
said
she'd
meet
me
when
I
come
Cy’s
face
lit
up
for
a
moment
then
he
looked
down
at
his
fingers
moving
over
the
frets
of
the
guitar.
I'm
only
going
over
Jordan
I'm
only
going
over
home
They
brought
the
song
to
a
rousing
close,
and
the
cameras
showed
the
studio
audience
on
their
feet,
but
still
nothing
could
make
it
look
like
a
deliberate
performance.
There
was
just
no
denying
that
silence,
a
rend
in
the
fabric
of
Tonight
Show
time,
a
bullet
hole
blown
in
the
chest
of
Tuesday
night.
Lena
had
lost
it
and
everybody
saw.
When
the
song
was
over,
Carson
went
straight
to
Cy,
shaking
his
hand
with
what
looked
to
Ray
like
honest‐to‐God
gratitude.
Ray
had
just
shaken
that
same
hand,
cold
and
wet
and
fishy.
Ray
turned
to
Martin
and
said,
“Do
you
realize
who
that
is?”
“Who?”
“Him—grizzly
guy
up
there.”
“He
looks
familiar.”
“Cy.
Think
about
it.
Cyril
Dodge?
Haven’t
you
been
playing
him
all
day?”
Ray
punched
the
CD
player
to
“Rank
Outsider,”
Lena’s
first
hit,
and
turned
it
up.
The
beginning
was
a
lead
guitar
riff
so
ubiquitous
any
school
kid
in
America
could
hum
it,
even
if
they
didn’t
know
who
played
it.
“Him.”
56
Martin
glanced
from
Cy,
ahead
of
them
on
his
bike,
to
the
CD
player
like
he
was
trying
to
match
the
man
to
the
sound.
“Jesus!
”
He
smacked
the
dashboard
with
his
palm.
“Of
course.
Cyril
Dodge!
How
did
you
figure
that
out
and
I
didn’t?”
They
followed
him
as
he
veered
right.
Hot
as
it
was,
Cy
wore
a
leather
vest
to
ride.
Across
the
back
it
said
Red
Dirt
Sober
Bikers
and
had
Lena
Wells
lyrics
on
the
bottom
half
stitched
in
red
and
purple:
Heavy
heavy
blues
As
my
feathers
are
light
Midnight
of
the
morning
Of
American
night
Ray
read
the
lyrics
out
loud
and
said,
“I
know
those
words.”
“You
just
heard
them,”
Martin
said,
turning
up
the
music.
“Listen.”
James Brubaker
Three Television Shows About Familial Love
1
|
A
Father’s
Love
This
elimination‐style,
reality
television
show
finds
several
contestants
competing
for
the
love
of
a
father.
This
is
neither
the
actual
father
of
any
of
the
contestants,
nor
an
almighty
Father—it
is
simply
a
man
who
happens
to
be
a
father.
The
contestants
compete
in
challenges
such
as
making
breakfast
for
The
Father,
buying
Father’s
Day
gifts
for
The
Father,
playing
sports
with
The
Father,
working
on
car
engines
with
The
Father,
bathing
The
Father,
bringing
The
Father
his
pornographic
magazines
when
he
is
in
the
bathroom,
reading
the
newspaper
to
The
Father,
massaging
The
Father’s
feet,
bringing
home
an
appropriate
significant
other
who
pleases
The
Father,
agreeing
with
The
Father’s
At the conclusion of
each episode, The
Father selects one
contestant and
dismisses him or her
by saying, “I’m very
disappointed in you.”
political
beliefs,
appreciating
the
significance
of
The
Father’s
generation’s
contributions
to
society,
making
things
out
of
wood
for
and
with
The
Father,
not
telling
anyone
when
you
see
The
Father
ogle
waitresses,
cleaning
The
Father’s
collection
of
Civil
War
memorabilia,
painting
a
cubist
portrait
of
The
Father,
siding
with
The
Father
when
he
talks
about
all
the
times
his
wife
cheated
on
him,
carving
dice
out
of
bone
for
The
Father,
and
helping
The
Father
inside
and
to
bed
when
he
comes
home
drunk
and
throws
up
on
the
porch.
At
the
conclusion
of
each
episode,
The
Father
selects
one
contestant
and
dismisses
him
or
her
by
saying,
“I’m
very
disappointed
in
you.”
In
the
pilot
episode,
the
contestants
are
invited
to
a
formal
dinner
where
they
meet
The
Father
for
the
first
time.
There
is
no
formal
contest
in
this
first
episode,
but
The
Father
decides
to
dismiss
a
male
contestant
who
refrains
from
ordering
an
alcoholic
beverage
despite
The
Father’s
insistence.
After
the
young
man
leaves
the
dinner
table,
The
Father
says,
“Never
trust
a
man
who
won’t
drink
with
you.
Men
like
that,
they
will
always
find
ways
to
make
you
feel
bad
about
yourselves.”
The
show’s
finale
features
the
final
three
contestants
eulogizing
The
Father
at
a
mock
funeral,
after
which
The
Father
selects
the
son
or
daughter
he
loves
most
as
the
winner.
58
2
|
Clanking
Replicator
In
this
quirky
sitcom,
ED‐209
is
a
lonely
robot
living
in
a
society
of
fruitful
self‐replicating
robots.
While
the
robots
around
him—namely
ED‐208
and
ED‐210—have
self‐replicated
entire
units
of
fellow
robots
with
which
to
work
and
live,
ED‐209
has
been
unable
to
replicate
a
single
companion.
The
series
follows
ED‐209
as
he
works
at
a
factory
making
replacement
parts
for
robotic
pets,
spends
time
with
his
support
group
for
non‐replicating,
self‐replicating
robots,
and
seeks
companionship
among
his
neighbors.
In
the
pilot
episode,
ED‐209
spends
an
afternoon
with
ED‐208
and
some
of
its
replicated
offspring—ED‐208a,
ED‐208d,
and
ED‐208i.
When
ED‐
209
makes
a
tasteless
joke
about
RepRaps
and
their
non‐autonomous
self‐replication,
ED‐208
chastises
ED‐209
for
obscuring
his
own
insecurities
by
belittling
others.
ED‐208
says,
“01010011
01100101
01101100
01100110
00101101
01110010
01100101
01110000
01101100
01101001
01100011
01100001
01110100
01101001
01101111
01101110
00100000
01101001
01110011
00100000
01100001
00100000
01100110
01110101
01101110
01100100
01100001
01101101
01100101
01101110
01110100
01100001
01101100
00100000
01101110
01100101
01100011
01100101
01110011
01110011
01101001
01110100
01111001
00100000
01101111
01100110
00100000
01101111
01110101
01110010
00100000
01110011
01101111
01100011
01101001
01100101
01110100
01111001
00101100
00100000
01100001
01110101
01110100
01101111
01101110
01101111
01101101
01101111
01110101
01110011
00100000
01101111
01110010
00100000
01101110
01101111
01110100
00001010.”
The
robot’s
words
are
subtitled
on
the
bottom
of
the
screen
as,
“Self‐replication
is
a
fundamental
necessity
of
our
society,
autonomous
or
not.”
ED‐208d
adds,
spoken
in
binary
but
subtitled
as
always,
“Those
who
cannot
self‐replicate
endanger
our
culture.”
When
ED‐209
protests,
ED‐208i
says,
“When
ED‐208
ceases
to
function,
we,
his
replications,
will
go
on.
When
we
cease
to
function,
the
replications
we
make
will
go
on.”
Upset
by
its
encounter
with
ED‐208
et
al,
ED‐209
visits
ED‐210
and
asks
for
help
learning
how
to
self‐replicate.
Under
the
guidance
of
ED‐210,
ED‐
209
makes
several
attempts
at
self‐replication.
These
attempts
include
building
a
robot
with
its
outsides
on
its
inside
and
its
insides
on
its
outside,
building
a
robot
with
a
cinder
block
where
its
head
should
be,
building
a
robot
with
component
parts
made
of
brittle
glass,
and
building
a
robot
by
fusing
a
central
intelligence
data
processor
to
a
living
bird.
These
attempts
are
largely
unsuccessful,
though
the
robot‐bird
hybrid
displays
a
brief
flicker
of
artificial
life,
which
causes
ED‐209
to
feel
a
glimmer
of
hope
that
it
will
someday
be
able
to
participate
in
the
self‐
replication
upon
which
the
continuation
of
robotic
society
relies.
3
|
Old
Folks
A
sitcom
in
which
Ross
and
Jane,
a
couple
in
their
seventies,
come
to
terms
with
late‐in‐life
independence
after
their
children
and
grandchildren
stop
visiting
them.
The
pilot
episode
opens
with
Ross
calling
his
adult
children
and
inviting
them
over
for
dinner.
Each
invitation
is
met
with
a
negative
response,
ranging
from
a
simple,
“No
thanks,”
to
the
more
colorful,
“You
know
we
can’t
visit
because
your
age
is
a
constant
reminder
of
mortality,
and
every
time
we
leave
your
house,
our
children
can’t
sleep
because
they
are
afraid
of
death.”
After
their
invitations
are
refused,
Ross
and
Jane
decide
to
go
out
for
a
night
on
the
town
to
try
to
recapture
something
of
their
youth.
Unfortunately,
they
find
that
the
restaurants
and
clubs
they
used
to
frequent
have
long
closed.
After
a
montage
of
jokes
about
Ross’s
bad
driving
and
the
couple’s
attempt
to
find
an
early
bird
dinner,
Ross
and
Jane
decide
to
visit
a
new
bar
called
Vue.
After
waiting
thirty
minutes
for
a
server,
Ross
goes
to
the
bar
to
order
drinks,
but
it
is
too
dark
and
loud
for
him
to
read
the
price
list,
and
he
orders
drinks
that
far
exceed
the
amount
of
money
he
has
in
his
wallet.
Without
credit
cards,
Ross
is
unable
to
pay
for
the
drinks.
Embarrassed
by
the
situation,
Ross
retrieves
Jane
from
their
table,
and
the
couple
return
home
where
they
talk
about
friends
and
favorite
stars
who
have
died.
Ross
proposes
that
he
and
Jane
are
useless,
and
that
maybe
all
the
couple
has
left
is
to
wait
for
death.
Jane
disagrees
and
suggests
that,
just
because
so
many
of
their
friends
and
favorite
stars
are
dead,
and
just
because
their
family
and
the
world
have
left
them
behind,
does
not
mean
they
are
obsolete.
The
episode
ends
with
Ross
and
Jane
saying
goodnight
to
pictures
hanging
on
their
bedroom
walls
of
their
children
and
grandchildren,
then
kissing
each
other
on
their
mouths,
and
settling
into
sleep
in
their
individual
beds,
just
a
few
feet
apart
from
each
other
in
their
master
bedroom.
60
Rob Roesnch
In the Dark
On
the
first
day
back
from
Easter
break,
Vicky
Goggins,
the
girls’
Varsity
volleyball
coach,
was
not
in
her
usual
chair
in
the
faculty
dining
room.
Daniel
Lash,
who
taught
English,
noticed
this;
he
considered
himself
a
noticer.
Like
him,
she
was
younger
than
thirty
and
never
spoke
at
meetings
so,
even
though
she
sat
at
a
table
with
the
other
P.E.
teachers
and
Daniel
sat
alone,
with
a
book,
at
the
little
table
sometimes
used
as
a
place
to
set
left‐over
birthday
cake,
he
felt
a
kinship
with
her.
Though
they
had
never
discussed
it,
Daniel
imagined
she
would
understand
why
he
never
participated
in
the
conversation.
It
was
not
that
the
other
teachers
at
St.
Luke’s
were
awful
people,
Daniel
saw.
They
cared
for
their
students—at
least
for
the
ones
who
behaved.
They
were
cheerful
volunteers
even
for
such
drudgery
as
the
phone‐a‐thon.
They
dressed
up
to
chaperone
the
spring
dance.
Many
had
children
of
their
own
who
they
spoke
of
with
honest
pride
and
honest
worry;
they
knew
what
was
happening
in
their
children’s
lives,
and
they
knew
what
was
happening
in
their
students’
lives.
In
their
rooms
after
school
they
talked
with
students
about
numbers
or
French
verbs
or
five‐paragraph
essays,
willing
as
hired
carpenters.
What
got
to
Daniel
was
not
how
they
lived
or
who
they
were—it
was
what
they
talked
about:
TV
shows,
new
restaurants,
Beltway
traffic
and,
around
election
season,
whatever
platitude
or
slip‐of‐the‐tongue
was
that
day
in
the
news.
No
thinking
at
all,
he
would
tell
his
wife.
Just
white
noise.
He
wanted
to
go
back
to
grad
school.
But
he
was
too
proud
to
eat
alone
at
his
desk
in
his
room,
as
some
did—he
was
not
a
squirrel,
he
would
say
to
his
wife
after
her
response
of
“so
don’t
eat
in
there”
to
his
detailing
of
another
deadening
overheard
lunch
conversation.
“So
don’t
listen,”
she
would
say,
half‐listening
to
him,
trying
not
to
think
about
work
or
about
their
months‐long
failure
to
conceive
a
child,
letting
herself
sink
into
the
green
slicing
of
the
knife
through
the
carrots
or
onions
or
potatoes
on
the
perfect
solid
oak
cutting
board
that
she
congratulated
herself
every
day
for
adding
to
their
wedding
registry.
“How
could
I
not
listen?”
he
would
say.
Ted
Bonner,
who
taught
math
and
was
in
charge
of
the
Eucharistic
ministers
for
every
Mass,
had
also
noticed
Vicky’s
absence;
he
considered
himself
a
people
person
and
made
it
a
habit
to
keep
a
map
in
his
head
of
the
locations
of
the
other
people
in
a
room.
Entering,
he
had
also
noticed
Daniel’s
presence,
though
when
he
had
smiled
and
nodded
in
Daniel’s
direction
the
young
teacher
had
not
even
looked
up
from
his
book.
Ted
Bonner
was,
despite
himself,
suspicious
of
Daniel,
as
many
of
the
other
teachers
were,
though
none
would
go
so
far
as
to
refer
to
him
as
strange
or
even
odd—he
was
dedicated,
or
so
serious,
or
quiet.
Ted
Bonner
could
not
for
the
life
of
him
quite
understand
why
anyone
would
want
to
so
isolate
himself
in
a
place
like
St.
Luke’s.
Here
the
students
were
bright;
the
work
was
interesting;
the
soccer
fields
out
back
were
lovely,
long
and
soft
and
green;
the
conversation
with
peers
was
full
of
cheer
and
fellow‐
feeling;
Jesus
had
risen
from
the
dead
(he
remembered
most
days).
Mattie
O’Donnell,
who
had
been
at
the
school
long
enough
to
recognize
the
bad
dispositions
of
parents
in
their
children
and
had
taught
Columbus‐to‐Lincoln
American
history
so
many
times
she
did
not
ever
need
to
open
the
textbook,
imagined
she
understood
Daniel
Lash
perfectly:
he
thought
he
was
too
smart
for
St.
Luke’s.
He
went
home
every
day
and
laughed
about
it
on
the
phone
with
his
friends
in
New
York
City.
She
imagined
she
understood
Ted
Bonner—he
wanted
to
be
a
principal
and
planned
for
the
future
with
even
his
tiniest
gesture—
the
way
the
corners
of
his
lips
turned
up
when
he
asked
if
anyone
else
wanted
coffee.
She
did
not
believe
in
assigned
seats
in
the
lunch
room,
and
sat
where
she
pleased
and
made
conversation;
she
sat
in
Vicky’s
chair;
she
had
not
noticed
Vicky’s
absence.
Vicky
Goggins
was
not
in
the
lunch
room
because
she
had
resigned
the
day
before,
more
or
less
against
her
will,
via
a
phone
call
with
the
headmaster.
She
was
pregnant;
she
was
keeping
the
baby;
she
would
soon
be
showing;
she
was
unmarried.
***
There
was
no
decision
to
be
made
as
to
whether
or
not
Vicky
could
continue
teaching
at
St.
Luke’s—the
headmaster’s
responsibility
as
the
head
of
a
Catholic
high‐school
was
clear.
Even
so,
as
soon
as
he
had
hung
up
the
phone
he
had
had
visions
of
the
hand‐raising
outrage
of
an
emergency
full‐faculty
meeting.
He
saw
the
glasses
clenched
in
the
trembling
hand
of
the
librarian
who
went
to
church
every
day;
he
saw
the
untucked
shirt
of
the
new
history
teacher
who
was
always
proposing
field
trips
to
the
city
as
he
stood
to
demand
involving
the
students
themselves
in
the
discussion.
62
In
any
case,
he
had
to
somehow
inform
the
faculty.
They
were
the
voice
of
the
school,
like
it
or
not.
If
word
slipped
out
to
the
students
it
would
be
the
wrong
word,
and
different
versions
would
fly
around
the
cafeteria
and
then
to
the
dinner
tables,
and
his
phone
would
never
stop
ringing.
The
headmaster
saw
that
perhaps
it
could
be
called
cowardly
to
farm
the
task
out
to
the
department
chairs,
but
he
did
not,
after
five
long
years
on
the
job,
care.
He
had
lived
for
a
whole
year
in
a
South
American
jungle
and
survived
a
bite
from
a
poisonous
snake;
he
had
once
believed
in
his
heart
of
hearts
that
management
theory
was
only
for
people
who
did
not
trust
in
God.
So,
just
after
lunch,
the
announcement
for
the
department
meetings
was
made.
At
the
end
of
the
day,
instead
of
heading
straight
home
for
an
hour
or
two
with
a
novel
before
his
wife
arrived,
Daniel
Lash
sat
at
his
desk
listening
to
the
building
empty.
Like
a
ship
pulling
away
from
port,
he
thought.
Soon
all
the
students
were
elsewhere
except
for
the
girls’
track
team
dashing
from
room
to
room
looking
for
tape
to
hang
up
posters
on
lockers.
(It
was
always
vaguely
unsettling
for
Ted
Bonner
to
see
his
female
students
out
of
uniform
in
only
T‐shirts
and
those
new
shiny
shorts,
soft
as
pajamas,
so
he
always
made
sure
to
frown.)
When
even
the
track
girls
were
away
in
the
world,
the
various
departments
were
assembled
by
the
department
chairs
in
their
various
homes—the
math
department
in
a
room
with
nothing
on
the
walls
and
all
the
desks
gleaming
and
clean
of
marks;
the
science
department
perched
on
stools
in
a
room
that
smelled
of
bleach;
the
history
department
in
an
orange
room
where
the
chairs
had
been
arranged
into
a
lumpy
circle;
the
English
department
at
the
big
table
in
their
office
under
the
poster
of
Shakespeare
Andy‐Warhol
style;
the
religion
department
spread
out
among
the
first
few
pews
of
the
chapel
amid
the
late
afternoon
light
through
the
stained
glass‐the
most
beautiful
light
of
the
day,
one
teacher
said
before
the
meeting
began,
and
another
replied
“what
a
shame
we
are
never
here
at
this
time
as
a
community,
to
just
sit
and
breathe
and
be.”
Most
faculty
members
took
the
news
placidly—it
was
the
end
of
the
day
and
they
wanted
to
leave,
though
it
was
not
unpleasant
to
be
in
on
a
secret.
Those
who
were
disposed
to
react
to
such
news
with
anger
at
the
administration
for
the
callous
dismissal
of
a
good‐hearted
young
woman
or
with
anger
at
today’s
society
for
leading
young
people
into
error
could
then
say
their
pieces
to
a
group
of
close
colleagues
who
knew
exactly
what
was
coming
and
who
could
listen
placidly
or
nod
or
turn
their
heads
and
roll
their
eyes
as
fit
their
dispositions.
In
general,
whatever
each
individual
teacher’s
feelings
about
the
administration
or
society,
there
was
less
talk
of
disappointment
or
sin
or
poor
example
than
there
was
of
community
and
forgiveness;
at
a
minimum
everyone
seemed
agree
implicitly
on
the
great
value
of
their
selfless
feelings.
By
four
o’clock
there
was
nothing
more
to
say—the
news
was
no
longer
new,
what
was
happening
had
happened,
the
built‐up
steam
of
teacher‐self‐righteousness
had
been
vented,
just
as
the
headmaster
had
hoped.
Furthermore,
if
anyone
had
a
burning
desire
to
make
themselves
heard
by
the
headmaster
his
office
was
closed
for
the
day—he
was
attending
a
conference
with
other
heads
of
other
private
religious
schools
at
the
Marriott
downtown.
As
the
news
was
being
delivered
to
his
teachers
he
was
listening
to
a
retired
priest
explicating
a
few
lines
about
Christ
the
teacher,
about
the
care
He
took
to
craft
the
lesson
into
language
his
loved
students
could
take
into
their
lives.
The
headmaster
sometimes
wished
he
had
never
become
more
than
a
teacher.
He
found
his
attention
wandering—I
am
still
like
a
student,
he
thought.
The
retired
priest’s
bottle
of
water,
which
was
provided
for
all
the
speakers,
was
flavored
with
artificial
grapefruit.
The
bottle
was
unopened
and
it
would
stay
unopened,
the
headmaster
knew—
Catholics
were
used
to
speaking
without
needing
to
wet
their
throats.
The
headmaster
imagined
the
messages
stuffing
up
his
voice
mail.
He
thought
about
taking
off
his
shoes.
He
was
not,
truth
be
told,
particularly
worried
about
what
was
going
to
happen
to
Vicky
Goggins.
Very
few
were
particularly
worried
about
Vicky
Goggins.
The
unconscious
consensus
was,
more
or
less,
that
yes
Vicky
Goggins
was
unmarried,
and
pregnant,
but
on
the
other
hand
she
had
a
college
degree
and
her
parents
had
been
wealthy
enough—one
was
some
sort
of
lawyer—
to
send
her
to
St.
Luke’s
in
the
first
place.
There
were
other
jobs
in
the
world.
She
would
be
okay
“in
the
long
run.”
Not
that
her
life
would
not
change.
Maybe
there’d
be
a
year
or
two
in
her
parent’s
third
bedroom,
maybe
she’d
find
her
friends
drifting
away,
maybe
she’d
start
to
worry
if
she
would
ever
date
again,
whether
she’d
ever
again
feel
what
she
felt
the
previous
summer
a
little
too
drunk
with
her
feet
in
the
dark
swimming
pool,
talking
with
the
shadow
of
a
smooth‐
shouldered
young
man
who
smelled
like
smoke.
But
she’d
date
again;
she’d
meet
someone
at
the
library,
on
the
internet,
at
church.
Other
women
had
babies
and
cared
for
them;
women
had
babies;
she
was
not
a
charity
case.
All
the
same,
more
than
a
few
teachers
who
had
some
contact
with
her,
even
if
only
glancing
(a
conversation
about
the
rain,
a
sharing
of
a
moment
of
teaching
success
at
the
faculty
64
retreat,
a
joke
about
knees
at
the
faculty/student
basketball
game)
went
so
far
as
to
call
her
that
afternoon,
meaning
to
see
how
she
was
and
to
offer
vague
promises
of
future
aid.
All
ended
up
leaving
these
promises
on
her
voice
mail.
They
stood
ready
if
needed.
Ted
Bonner,
one
of
the
message‐leavers,
decided
that
night
after
beef
stroganoff
and
before
Law
and
Order
to
sit
down
and
compose
a
letter.
His
wife
wandered
back
into
the
kitchen
at
eight
o
‘clock,
when
they
had
usually
just
finished
their
hour
of
news,
and
remarked
on
the
care
he
was
taking
with
his
handwriting.
He
found
himself
writing
about
the
birth
of
his
first
daughter.
“I
had
no
idea
what
I
was
doing,”
he
wrote,
then
paused,
and
looked
at
it,
and
thought
why
on
earth
would
I
want
to
tell
Vicky
that?
He
remembered
how
cold
it
was,
how
he
stood
just
outside
the
hospital
doors
feeling
the
sweat
freezing
on
his
face,
eating
a
candy
bar—the
first
thing
he’d
eaten
all
day—and
watching
his
breath
in
the
dark.
That
weird
warm
tiny
purple‐blue
creature
was
his
flesh
and
blood.
He
wasn’t
excited,
exactly;
he
wasn’t
afraid.
He
felt
warm
That weird warm tiny
purple-blue creature was his
flesh and blood. He wasn’t
excited, exactly; he wasn’t
afraid. He felt warm and
strange.
and
strange.
He
closed
his
eyes
and
tried
to
say
a
Hail
Mary
but
he
couldn’t
remember
the
second
part;
silent
night,
holy
night
kept
popping
into
his
head.
He
felt
that
he
did
not
have
control
of
his
thoughts.
He
imagined
simply
walking
away;
how
hard
could
it
be
to
steal
a
car?
He
wished
it
was
not
overcast.
He
held
the
door
open
for
a
man
his
age
carrying
a
small
pale
woman
in
a
white
nightgown
and
winter
coat.
He
thought
of
the
day
his
daughter
fell
out
of
the
tree
in
the
yard
she
had
been
warned
against
climbing,
how
she
ran
to
him
screaming
with
her
wrist
wrong
and
how
he
knelt
in
the
wet
grass
and
held
her,
and
how
hot
her
skin
was,
and
how
he
could
not
himself
stop
crying.
He
tore
up
what
he
had
written
and
wrote
another
letter,
much
shorter,
in
five
minutes.
He
ended
the
new
letter
with
“I
will
keep
you
in
my
prayers”
and
his
email
address.
Mattie
O’Donnell
did
not
bother
with
a
phone
call—after
the
department
meeting
she
dug
out
her
copy
of
the
faculty
directory
from
the
bottom
of
the
mess
of
her
drawer
in
the
department
file
cabinet
and
found
the
Vicky’s
address
and
drove
right
there.
A
townhouse
complex
near
the
Beltway.
She
did
not
pause
to
consider
whether
or
not
Vicky
would
appreciate
a
visit—if
another
human
being
was
in
trouble
and
you
could
help,
you
helped.
It
was
simple.
If
someone
was
doing
something
wrong,
you
said
so.
It
was
what
her
mother
had
always
done.
If
there
was
a
sick
baby
down
the
street,
you
walked
down
the
street
with
a
dish
of
hot
food
and
you
knocked
on
the
door
and
entered
and
began
to
clean.
When
that
baby
grew
to
a
boy
who
stood
together
with
a
knot
of
boys
around
the
side
of
the
grocery
store
making
monkey
business
and
sneaking
cigarettes,
you
told
that
boy
you
would
tell
his
mother,
and
then
you
told
his
mother.
And
when
your
mother
died
that
boy
would
come
to
the
funeral
and
he
would
be
a
responsible
man
in
a
neat
black
suit
with
a
family
of
his
own.
Mattie
knocked
on
the
front
door
three
times.
(She
did
not
know
she
had
an
unusually
sharp
knock.)
After
a
few
seconds,
there
was
a
shuffling
around
in
the
hallway
beyond
the
door,
though
the
door
did
not
open.
A
few
seconds
later
the
door
was
finally
opened
not
by
Vicky
but
by
a
young
woman
in
sweatpants
and
a
ponytail
holding
a
phone,
chewing
gum.
She
did
not
so
much
as
say
hello.
Mattie
almost
simply
pushed
past
her.
“Is
Vicky
upstairs?”
she
said.
“Who
are
you?”
said
the
girl,
who
was
clearly
not
a
St.
Luke’s
girl.
“I’m
a
teacher
at
her
school,”
she
said.
“That’s
why
I’m
here.”
“She’s
not
here,”
said
the
girl.
The
girl
was
lying,
Mattie
saw.
She
imagined
that
she
could
always
tell
when
her
students
were
lying.
“Will
you
go
upstairs
and
tell
her
that
I’m
here?”
said
Mattie.
“She’s
not
here,”
said
the
girl.
“I
don’t
know
why
you
have
to
be
so
difficult,”
said
Mattie.
And
the
girl
closed
the
door
right
in
her
face.
Mattie
could
hear
numbers
being
entered
into
the
phone
as
the
girl
retreated
into
the
house.
Young
people
today
were
missing
some
part
of
their
souls,
Mattie
decided
again.
Still,
Vicky
needed
her
help‐‐Vicky
was
a
good
girl,
for
the
most
part.
She
should
have
known
to
come
to
her
for
help.
They’d
talked
about
the
beaches
of
New
Jersey;
they’d
talked
about
the
Irish
Tenors.
That
night
Mattie
O’Donnell
could
not
concentrate
on
the
new
Abraham
Lincoln
biography.
She
could
already
hear
the
voices
in
the
faculty
dining
room
in
her
head.
Those
people
only
pretended
to
be
Christians.
She
fell
asleep
angry
on
the
pink
flowery
sofa
and
awoke
with
a
start
to
a
bunch
of
does
in
the
backyard,
as
if
one
had
spoken
to
her
before
bending
down
to
nose
the
grass.
Mattie
watched
the
deer
and
was
careful
to
breathe
quietly,
as
if
they
would
hear
her
through
the
sliding
glass
door.
As
someone
who
had
grown
up
in
the
city
she
was
still
a
little
bit
afraid
of
66
deer,
their
human‐sized
eyes.
Her
neighbors
were
worried
about
their
landscaping;
there
was
talk
of
calling
in
hunters.
She
was
just
about
to
stand
and
knock
on
the
glass
to
shoo
them
but
then
did
not,
and
instead
stood
with
her
nose
nearly
touching
the
glass,
watching.
***
In
the
morning,
just
as
Mattie
had
imagined,
the
“usual
suspects”
assembled
around
the
big
table
in
the
faculty
dining
room.
There
was
the
usual
joke
about
decaf
or
high‐test,
a
general
ooh‐ing
over
a
box
of
donut
holes—the
morning
seemed
ordinary
enough,
though
the
words
about
Vicky
were
in
the
air,
waiting
to
slip
in.
“Have
you
seen
John
this
morning?
He
must
be
buried
under
messages,”
was
offered
to
general
nodding,
and
the
topic
was
opened.
“It
must
be
difficult
for
the
girls
on
the
team,”
said
Diane
Wiscowski,
seizing
the
moment,
stirring
her
tea.
She
was
always
stirring
her
tea.
She
was
not
concerned
about
what
impression
she
gave,
but
only
about
what
was
right
and
true.
(She
refused
to
even
accept
papers
that
misspelled
authors’
or
characters’
names
and,
when
asked
by
terrified
students
to
send
college
recommendation
letters,
produced
pages
of
beautifully
turned,
persuasively
detailed
sentences
that
the
students
themselves
would
never
be
allowed
to
read).
Ted
Bonner
found
himself
agreeing
with
Diane,
up
to
a
point.
He
had
not
sent
the
letter,
and
instead
planned
to
find
a
quiet
moment
over
the
next
few
days,
after
the
chatter
had
calmed
down,
to
sit
down
with
someone
in
PE
and
see
how
she
was
getting
by,
if
there
was
anything
he
could
do.
It
was
true
Vicky
should
have
made
better
choices.
It
was
true
he
did
not
know
her
very
well
at
all.
“They’ll
be
fine—they’re
a
good
group
of
girls,”
said
Ted
Bonner.
“She
was
someone
they
looked
up
to,”
continued
Diane.
“It’s
not
fair
to
them.”
“No,”
said
Ted
Bonner.
“Of
course
it’s
not.”
“She
seemed
like
such
a
responsible
person,”
said
someone
else.
“She
was
always
a
little
wild,”
said
someone
else.
The
door
to
the
faculty
room
opened
and
Ted
Bonner,
his
back
to
the
door,
sensed
a
change
in
the
space
and
watched
Diane
stirring
her
tea
and
pointedly
not
looking
up.
It
was
Mattie
O’Donnell.
Ted
turned
to
say
hello,
but
she
was
already
looking
directly
at
him.
“Now
don’t
you
all
look
pleased
with
yourselves,”
she
said
in
the
same
tone
she
used
with
students
who
claimed
to
have
misunderstood
homework
assignments.
“I’m
not
sure
what
you
mean,
Mattie,”
said
Ted
Bonner
calmly—he
knew
exactly
what
she
meant.
He
considered
himself
a
generous
person
but
often
had
to
work
to
keep
a
rising
bitterness
out
of
his
face
whenever
Mattie
spoke
to
him.
As
a
Catholic
teacher
at
a
Catholic
high
school,
he
had
once
felt
free
to
praise
the
initiative
of
a
few
students
in
his
homeroom
who’d
taken
time
out
of
their
own
weekends
and
afternoons
to
plan
a
trip
to
the
pro‐life
march
in
Washington;
moreover,
he
had
been
careful
not
to
censure
or
criticize
directly
any
of
those
students
who
did
not
participate,
or
those
who
believed
strongly
that
true
gender
equality
(which
he
also
believed
in)
required
complete
reproductive
freedom—he
was
not
their
priest
or
their
father,
and
he
believed
that
respect
for
the
democratic
process
meant
respect
for
other
points
of
view,
so
he
was
stung
when
a
student
complained
to
him
of
Mattie’s
disparaging
comments
about
the
pro‐life
march,
and,
more
particularly,
Mattie’s
statement
that
men
should
not
have
a
vote
on
the
matter
one
way
or
the
other;
especially
not
the
men
who
teach
here.
Ted
was
sure
Mattie
had
said
worse
but,
as
a
matter
of
principle,
never
allowed
a
student
to
complain
about
another
teacher
in
his
earshot.
“Oh
you
know
exactly
what
I
mean,”
said
Mattie,
coming
into
the
room,
feeling
her
eyes
burning.
All
his
simpering
courtesy—it
was
never
true.
True
kindness
was
never
simply
polite
but
direct
and
sometimes
difficult.
When
you
didn’t
say
what
was
true
your
insides
got
all
twisted
up.
In
any
case,
it
was
better
to
be
hated
openly
than
to
wonder
and
worry
how
others
were
feeling.
Still,
Mattie
O’Donnell
was
not
above
being
flustered,
and
soon
enough
she
found
herself
standing
directly
in
front
of
the
closed
refrigerator
with
no
thought
in
her
head
of
what
tangible
task
she
had
come
into
the
faculty
dining
room
to
perform.
Daniel
Lash,
at
his
little
table,
had,
at
first,
pretended
to
not
be
paying
attention.
He
had
his
copy
of
the
Brit
Lit
textbook
open
to
the
section
on
Romantic
poets
that
he
was
preparing
for
the
day—he’d
taught
the
section
five
times
already
and
had,
even
before
that,
known
the
Romantics
backwards
and
forwards—he’d
written
his
undergrad
thesis
on
water
imagery
in
68
Wordsworth‐‐but
he
liked
to
look
over
everything
carefully
each
year.
He
told
his
classes
that
he
learned
something
new
each
time,
which
wasn’t
quite
true—he
enjoyed
the
poems
more,
perhaps,
but
he
was
never
persuaded
to,
for
example,
accept
a
different
interpretation
of
a
line.
He
became
more
and
more
helplessly
frustrated
by
his
students’
obstinate
refusal
to
swoon
over
the
poems’
beauty
and
worth.
You
were
like
that
too,
once,
he
told
himself;
you
once
had
girls
and
baseball
games
and
beer
on
your
mind
and
in
your
heart.
You
were
like
them
once,
he
told
himself
each
year
and
each
year
felt
its
truth
less
and
less.
At
first
he
was
staring
at
a
drawing
of
a
nightingale,
and
then,
when
Mattie
came
in,
he
looked
out
the
window
at
the
stream
of
silver
and
black
shiny
vehicles—kids
being
dropped
off
on
the
way
to
the
office,
on
the
way
to
yoga—and
he
noticed
how
none
of
the
kids
nor
the
occasional
trudging
teacher
looked
away
from
the
school
out
over
the
traffic
to
the
knot
of
trees
between
St.
Luke’s
and
the
street
where
the
leaves
were
just
coming
into
bud,
and,
where,
at
least
from
where
he
sat,
you
could
make
out
two
new
nests,
not
too
high
up,
in
crooks.
A
mother
bird
darted
out
of
one.
In
those
tufts,
tiny
desperate
sharp
yellow
mouths.
Maybe
one
perfect
speckled
still‐unhatched
egg.
He
was
sure
that
his
wife’s
failure
to
get
pregnant
was
his
fault.
He
saw
he
had
been
listening
hard,
almost
hoping
for
a
bitter
word
from
the
big
table
about
Vicky
Goggins,
a
note
of
scorn
for
violating
Jesus’
pregnancy
rules.
That
she
was
pregnant
was
somehow
not
fair.
What
an
awful
thing
to
think,
he
saw.
What
sort
of
person
had
he
become?
Daniel
then
turned
to
watch
Ted
Bonner
watch,
with
a
perfectly
blank
face,
Mattie
O’Donnell
stand
in
front
of
the
refrigerator,
her
face
clenched,
staring
hard
at
the
lunch
calendar
taped
to
the
front
of
the
refrigerator.
Seconds
passed.
“I’m
sorry,
Mattie,”
said
Ted
Bonner
finally.
“But
I’m
afraid
you’ve
got
me
in
the
dark.”
When
Mattie
turned
to
face
the
big
table
she
did
not
know
what
she
was
going
to
say
but
she
felt
that
she
was
ready
to
say
whatever
was
going
to
come
out
of
her
mouth
about
how
wrong
it
was
to
cast
a
person
out
of
their
community;
Ted
Bonner
waited
and
readied
to
calmly
reply
something
along
the
lines
of
caring
for
the
effects
of
the
moral
atmosphere
of
the
school
on
their
students
did
not
mean
that
everyone
there
did
not
also
care
for
Vicky
and
for
the
new
child;
Daniel
Lash
imagined
interrupting
and
saying
something
like
“Thank
God
she
doesn’t
have
to
listen
to
you
two
anymore,”
knowing
he
would
no
more
stand
and
speak
than
he
would
smash
through
the
window
into
the
day.
Then
Vicky
Goggins
herself
came
into
the
room.
She
was
wearing
jeans
and
gray
sweatshirt
so
shapeless
that,
if
you
didn’t
know
she
was
pregnant,
you
wouldn’t
have
guessed.
On
her
feet
were
new,
old‐lady‐mall‐walker
white
sneakers,
nothing
like
the
webby
crosstrainers
or
hiking
sandals
the
other
teachers
would
have
imagined
her
in.
She
looked
like
she
had
not
slept
well.
There was Daniel Lash
in his back corner,
Ted
Bonner
did
not
at
first
see
Vicky—his
imagination
believed
she
book open before him
had
been
erased
from
St.
Luke’s.
For
an
instant
she
was
a
mother
and his mouth open
here
to
help
the
Booster
club
stuff
envelopes;
she
was
a
substitute
like he was about to
teacher.
He
only
saw
her
when
her
eyes
settled
on
his
face
for
a
say something. He
moment
and,
when
he
did
not
react,
drifted
away.
Daniel
Lash
was
not
surprised
that
she
did
not
turn
her
head
to
catch
his
eye;
he
waited
for
someone
at
the
big
table
to
tell
her
she
shouldn’t
have
come
in
when
there
were
students
around
always seemed like he
was about to say
something.
but
no
one
said
anything
until
Mattie
barked
“There
you
are!”
The
door
behind
Vicky
Goggins
settled
closed,
and
she
could
not
make
herself
step
confidently
through
the
room,
as
she
had
imagined
the
night
before
and
on
the
car
ride
over,
right
through
all
of
them
to
the
refrigerator
to
retrieve
her
week‐old
pasta‐and‐vegetables
in
the
Tupperware
snapcase
she’d
meant
to
borrow,
not
steal,
from
her
mother,
no
matter
what
her
mother
said.
She
made
mistakes,
yes,
everyone
did.
She
had
forgotten
the
Tupperware;
she
was
pregnant.
But
she
would
be
responsible
for
what
she
did.
As
she
had
seen
it,
there
was
no
point
in
waking
up
very
early
or
waiting
until
the
day
was
over
to
retrieve
her
mother’s
Tupperware.
She’d
worked
at
the
school
for
five
years;
it
could
cope
with
five
more
minutes
of
the
pressure
of
her
feet.
The
problem
was
the
instant
she
stepped
into
the
faculty
dining
room
and
Ted
Bonner
looked
up
and
Mattie
spotted
her
she
was
again
a
student,
a
stupid
girl,
a
child.
“I
am
here,”
she
managed
after
a
moment.
Diane
stopped
stirring
her
tea.
In
the
quiet
Vicky
heard
some
boys
in
the
hall
fiddling
with
their
locks
and
knocking
on
their
lockers—this
heavy
green
childlike
clanging
that
she’d
heard
every
morning
for
years.
The
room
waited.
70
“Vicky,
are
you
doing
okay?”
said
Ted
Bonner.
“Is
there
something
we
can
do
to
help
you?”
“No,”
she
said,
recovering.
“No.”
She
told
her
legs
to
step
forward
to
the
refrigerator,
and
they
did.
She
felt
eyes
settling
on
her
spine,
like
horseflies.
Mattie
moved
aside
for
her
as
she
opened
the
refrigerator
and
collected
the
mushy
white
pasta
in
the
Tupperware
and
said
goodbye
in
her
mind
to
the
things
in
the
refrigerator:
goodbye
to
the
“family‐size”
ketchup
and
goodbye
to
the
French
Vanilla
flavored
non‐dairy
creamer
that
had
been
there
since
Christmas.
As
the
refrigerator’s
door
closed,
Mattie
O’Donnell’s
hands
were
on
her
shoulders.
Vicky
felt
the
muscles
in
her
shoulders
clench,
as
if
she
was
about
to
throw
a
punch.
“Vicky,
you
don’t
listen
to
anything
anyone
says,
okay?
You
trust
yourself.
Now,
where
can
we
go
to
talk
this
through?”
“I
guess
I
came
here
because
I
wanted
to
say
goodbye,”
she
said.
Mattie
nodded
vigorously.
“No,”
said
Vicky,
taking
a
step
back.
“I
mean,
I
think,
a
real
goodbye.”
Mattie
O’Donnell
kept
nodding
and
she
did
not
let
her
hands
drop
to
her
sides
but
clasped
them,
suddenly,
like
a
punished
child
trying
to
show
she
was
listening.
Vicky
Goggins
took
a
last
look
out
at
the
faculty
dining
room.
There
was
Daniel
Lash
in
his
back
corner,
book
open
before
him
and
his
mouth
open
like
he
was
about
to
say
something.
He
always
seemed
like
he
was
about
to
say
something.
“I
guess
I
should
have
come
earlier
this
morning,”
she
said.
They
were
the
last
words
these
people
would
ever
hear
her
say.
It
was
a
strange
thought.
The
color
of
the
formica
tables—
a
sort
of
leathery
purple—was
strange,
and
the
pattern
of
cracks
in
the
top
corner
of
one
of
the
windows
was
strange—from,
maybe,
a
lost
bird?
a
thrown
stone?
something
altogether
different?
Everything
these
days
was
more
and
more
strange,
she
thought,
as
she
walked
through
the
faculty
dining
room
and
through
the
door
and
closed
the
door
behind
her
and
closed
those
eyes
to
her
life.
How
strange
to
think
about
what
they
could
be
thinking
and
seeing
and
saying.
Outside
the
light
was
a
good,
ordinary
morning
light
and
she
was
free
in
it,
insanely
free.
She
was
a
student
and
walking
out
into
the
school
parking
lot
halfway
through
a
school
day
because
maybe
her
mother
was
picking
her
up
to
take
her
to
the
dentist—it
seems
impossible
to
be
allowed
to
be
outside,
yet
she
is
outside.
72
Reviews
&
Interviews
Ashley Galan
A Review of Stuart Youngman “Sy” Hoahwah’s Night Cradle and
Velroy and the Madischie Mafia
One
of
only
a
handful
of
poets
to
come
from
the
Comanche
Nation
Tribe,
Sy
Hoahwah
has
been
described
as
the
next
generation
of
young
native
poet‐prophets
by
author
Joy
Harjo.
Many
of
his
poems
find
settings
in
Southwest
Oklahoma,
where
he
has
close
family
ties.
Hoahwah’s
writing
pays
homage
to
the
stories,
traditions
and
superstitions
of
the
Comanche
Tribe
and
incorporates
aspects
of
these
into
his
poetry
in
a
way
that
is
uniquely
his
own,
while
at
the
same
time
accessible
to
everyone.
His
poetry
collections,
Velroy
and
the
Madischie
Mafia
and
Night
Cradle
both
eloquently
combine
the
gritty
reality
of
life
as
a
Native
American
with
supernatural
elements.
His
work
tends
to
challenge
any
preconceived
notions
about
today’s
Native
Americans
while
at
the
same
time
honoring
those
natives
that
have
come
before
him.
In
the
first
poetry
collection,
titled
Velroy
and
the
Madischie
Mafia,
much
of
the
poetry’s
settings
take
place
in
Comanche
County
and
vividly
paints
a
portrait
of
a
land
riddled
with
drug
use
combined
with
Native
traditions
and
ghosts.
Hoahwah’s
creative
use
of
old
tribal
folklores
adds
to
the
mystique
of
his
supernatural
ghost
stories.
One
poem
titled,
“Colors
of
the
Comanche
Nation
Flag,”
is
one
in
particular
that
puts
the
tribal
folklore
of
the
“Mupits,”
“Deer
Woman”
and
“Coyote
Superstition”
to
use,
exploring
them
in
a
way
that
adds
dramatic
effect
to
his
ghost
stories
and
bringing
these
folklores
to
a
wider
audience.
His
writing
in
this
collection
accurately
and
artfully
portrays
life
and
events
of
young
Native
Americans
as
depicted
in
the
first
poem,
“Madischie
Mafia.”
Hoahwah
does
not
shy
away
from
the
grittiness
of
life
and
drug
use,
but
instead
uses
it
as
a
tool
to
reconstruct
ideas
and
break
common
stereotypes.
The
poems
in
Hoahwah’s
second
poetry
collection,
titled,
Night
Cradle,
like
those
in
Velroy
and
the
Madischie
Mafia
are
lyrical
and
often
indebted
to
surrealism.
Both
collections
offer
depictions
of
the
past
as
well
as
the
present
and
tell
stories
of
haunted
lands.
The
poems
of
Night
Cradle
are
each
unique
in
their
own
way
and
at
the
same
time
flow
together
to
tell
an
imagistic
story.
Hoahwah’s
descriptions
of
the
supernatural
are
imaginative
and
embody
characteristics
of
Native
American
religion
and
witchcraft,
which
is
evident
in
each
of
his
poems.
74
Through
a
wide
variation
of
ideas
and
images
these
elements
combine
to
create
a
beautifully
crafted
subtle
narrative
to
this
collection
of
poems.
Sy
Hoahwah
is
clearly
a
talented
poet,
and
the
influences
of
his
Native
American
heritage,
and
childhood
in
Southwest
Oklahoma,
both
come
through
clearly
in
his
work.
His
poems
offer
an
accurate
and
interesting
portrayal
of
a
new
generation
of
Native
Americans
of
any
tribal
heritage.
Mr.
Hoahwah’s
writing
is
refreshing
and
unique
among
other
Native
writers
in
that
he
offers
a
new
perspective
on
Native
American
identity
and
way
of
life.
His
poems
offer
creative
narratives
evoked
through
vividly
described
images,
characters
and
landscapes.
Velroy
and
the
Madischie
Mafia
and
Night
Cradle
are
poetry
collections
which
readers
will
find
both
entertaining
and
enlightening.
Nick Brush
A Review of Michael Nye’s Strategies Against Extinction
Oftentimes,
short
story
collections
amount
to
nothing
more
than
a
mish‐mash
of
unrelated
tales
thrown
together
with
the
finesse
of
a
dachshund
on
ice
skates.
However,
Michael
Nye’s
2012
debut,
Strategies
Against
Extinction,
is
not
that
collection.
In
his
collection
of
nine
short
stories,
Nye
creates
nine
completely
different
yet
believable
worlds
in
which
his
all‐too‐real
characters
struggle
to
cope
with
their
existence.
Each
character
has
his
or
her
own
problems
in
life
whether
it
be
a
failed
marriage
or
a
failed
career.
Characters
range
from
the
projectionist
at
a
movie
theater
in
a
dead‐end
town,
to
a
vascular
surgeon
who
makes
a
career‐altering
mistake
in
the
operating
room,
to
the
infamous
Russian
leader,
Vladimir
Putin.
Each
story
contained
in
Strategies
draws
you
in
quickly,
and
doesn’t
let
up
until
its
conclusion.
The
main
things
that
set
Nye’s
collection
apart
from
others
like
it
are
his
attention
to
detail
in
both
character
and
plot
development.
Nye
takes
the
time
to
introduce
his
characters
in
such
a
way
that
even
with
limitations
of
the
short
story
form,
the
words
become
true
flesh‐and‐
blood
people.
The
reader
is
able
to
feel
the
pain
and
loss
of
the
failed
relationships
found
in
some
of
the
stories,
and
almost
wants
to
reach
out,
put
her
arm
on
a
character’s
shoulder,
and
tell
them,
“It’s
going
to
be
okay.”
As
clichéd
as
it
might
sound,
I
felt
a
true
connection
to
many
of
the
characters
in
this
book.
Even
the
1950s
radio
baseball
announcer,
for
example,
felt
like
someone
I
could
run
into
in
my
own
twenty‐first
century
life.
It’s
not
just
the
characters
that
make
a
short
story,
though,
and
Nye
can
spin
a
yarn
like
nobody’s
business.
Sometimes
an
author’s
commitment
to
character
development
might
cause
him
to
overlook
certain
elements
of
plot,
but
Nye
has
skillfully
crafted
each
of
these
stories
in
such
a
way
that
the
pacing
in
each
never
seems
to
drag.
He
weaves
in
minute
details
that
you
might
not
think
matter
at
the
start
but
will
have
you
turning
a
few
pages
back
after
an
“AHA!”
moment
towards
the
end.
Some
of
the
stories
end
on
a
high
note,
and
some
not‐so‐high,
but
every
story
in
Strategies
is
an
absolute
delight
to
read.
Michael
Nye’s
Strategies
Against
Extinction
is
one
hell
of
a
debut,
and
Nye
is
truly
one
hell
of
a
writer.
Each
of
the
240
pages
in
the
collection
is
well
worth
reading
more
than
once,
and
you’ll
want
to
ensure
you
do
so;
there
are
plenty
of
details
that
work
to
flesh
out
the
tales
76
that
I
didn’t
catch
on
my
first
read‐through.
Strategies
will
always
have
a
place
on
my
bookshelf,
though
it
may
not
get
a
chance
to
get
too
comfortable,
since
I’ll
be
reading
it
again
very
soon.
George McCormick
‘Love Doesn’t Mean You Don’t Have to Go to the Dentist’: An
Interview with Francesca Abbate
In
anticipation
of
Francesca
Abbate’s
visit
to
Cameron
University
in
February,
I
caught
up
with
the
poet
via
e‐mail
where,
over
several
days,
we
had
the
following
exchange.
Abbate’s
debut,
Troy,
Unincorporated
(2012,
University
of
Chicago),
is
a
retelling
of
Chaucer’s
Troilus
and
Criseyde
set
in
the
small
town
of
Troy,
Wisconsin.
This
story
of
love
and
loss
and
love
again
is
told
through
a
polyphony
of
voices,
each
poem
being
“spoken”
by
a
kind
of
rivalry
of
narrators.
Troilus
and
Criseyde
get
a
voice,
but
so
too
do
“Pandarus,”
“Psyche,”
and
the
“Narrator”
(who,
as
the
interview
bears
out,
is
Abbate
herself—kind
of).
An
ambitious
and
often
surprising
book,
Troy,
Unincorporated
is
one
of
the
most
intimate
and
moving
reading
experiences
I’ve
encountered
in
years.
[George
McCormick]:
Almost
twenty
years
ago
you
gave
a
reading
at
the
University
of
Montana
where,
in
one
of
your
poems,
there
was
a
curious
use
of
the
interrogative.
As
best
as
I
can
remember,
you
read:
“Is
there
a
half
language
of
want?”
I
think
there
was
a
stanza
break,
or
a
full
stop
after
that,
I
don’t
remember,
but
I
do
remember
the
question
holding
in
the
air
for
a
while.
In
fact
that
line
has
held
inside
me
for
close
to
two
decades.
On
occasion
I’ve
tried
stealing
it
and
working
it
into
my
own
fiction—first
in
dialogue,
where
it
always
came
across
as
pretentious
(as
it
never
was
in
the
poem),
then
later
in
monologues
where
it
never
seemed
to
fit
any
of
my
characters.
You
can
imagine
my
astonishment,
then,
when
I
picked
up
Troy,
Unincorporated
and,
in
the
book’s
wonderful
opening,
I
read:
“Everything
is
half
here/
like
the
marble
head/
of
the
Greek
warrior/
and
the
lean
torso/
of
his
favorite./
The
way
the
funnel
cloud/
which
doesn’t
seem/
to
touch
ground
does—/
flips
a
few
cars,
a
semi—/
we
learn
to
walk
miles
above
our
bodies.”
In
the
book’s
next
poem
you
write:
“Praise
me,
I
told
the
water
lilies,
for
I
am
half‐invincible,/
half‐destructable,
half
mad:
am,
in
fact,
a
divine
half//
and
a
half
not,
and
it’s
lonely
out
here
and
hot,/
and
a
lifetime
has
elapsed
on
this
floating
path/
with
its
canopy
of
poison
sumac,
its
pale,
half‐dead/
orchids,
the
drams
of
bog
people
hidden//
under
the
planks—so
finely
pored,
so
stubble
bladed,/
so
adept
at
heat
and
loneliness,
so
not
half—for
78
who//
will
praise
me
now,
I
was
too
clever
by
half…”
So
here’s
my
question:
am
I
crazy
to
think
that
some
of
this
wasn’t
rooted
in
some
of
those
poems
you
were
working
on
so
long
ago?
Do
you
even
remember
those
poems,
much
less
that
line?
Did
I
make
all
of
this
up?
[Francesca
Abbate]:
I
am
astounded
that
you
remember
that
poem,
and
I
think
you’ve
got
the
line
exactly,
though
I
can’t
remember
the
lineation.
The
next
line
was
something
about
a
way
to
measure
the
sky
and
it
had
something
to
do
with
horses,
and
it
was
a
poem
for
Lila
Cecil.
She’d
taken
me
to
see
some
horses.
I
remember
a
high
hill,
tall
yellowing
grass,
and
no
houses
around,
seemingly.
Just
the
horses.
Anyway.
I’m
sure
the
poems
in
Troy,
Unincorporated
are
related.
They
grow
out
of
who
I
was
then
and
who
I
became,
after
all.
I
don’t
think
this
is
uncommon,
but
I’ve
always
felt
as
if
I
live
two
lives,
this
one
and
another
life
which
is
not
just
an
interior
life,
but
something
almost
remembered
and/or
almost
physical
that
can’t
be
put
into
words,
that
we
all
do,
really,
and
that
art
is
an
oblique
glance
into
it.
That
other
life
feels
very
close
sometimes,
so
close
that
I
think
I
feel
half
here
and
half
“there,”
which
isn’t
the
right
word,
of
course.
I
still
miss
Missoula.
But
the
poems
in
this
book
are
concerned
with
that
feeling
of
half‐ness
in
another
way,
too.
I’d
taken
a
class
called
“Chaucer
for
Writers”
while
I
was
getting
my
Ph.D.,
but
I
started
writing
the
poems
spoken
by
the
characters
ten
years
later.
Wow,
am
I
slow,
right?
Anyway.
In
the
meantime,
I
was
writing
other
poems,
including
the
two
you
quote
here.
So
these
are
some
of
the
earliest.
I
wasn’t
going
to
include
them—it
almost
felt
like
cheating
to
include
poems
so
“old”—but
in
the
middle
of
working
on
the
manuscript
I
reread
that
Chaucer
had
“revoked”
Troilus
and
Criseyde
at
the
end
of
his
life,
because
the
poem
was
too
worldly,
and
he
wanted
to
go
to
heaven.
So
I
felt
as
though
his
characters
were
left
to
lead
half‐lives,
too,
like
they
were
drifting
around
out
there,
rootless,
homeless.
I
felt
a
kinship
with
them,
an
invitation
to
explore
this
half‐ness.
I
wonder,
now,
too,
if
this
half‐ness
also
speaks
to
the
separation
that’s
at
the
center
of—that
propels—Chaucer’s
poem,
which
is
Criseyde’s
betrayal
of
Troilus.
So
that’s
another
half‐ness,
a
romantic
one,
the
heart
split
in
two.
As
Montaigne
says
of
the
death
of
his
closest
friend:
“I
was
already
so
used
and
accustomed
to
being,
in
everything,
one
of
two,
that
I
now
feel
I
am
no
more
than
a
half.”
I’ve
been
reading
Montaigne’s
essays
for
a
couple
years
now.
It’s
slow
going
for
me.
[McCormick]:
I
didn’t
know
that
about
Chaucer,
that
he
“revoked”
his
work
because
he
wanted
to
get
into
heaven.
Part
of
me
scoffs
at
this,
but
part
of
me
loves
the
fact
that
Chaucer
lived
in
a
time
when
poetry
really
could
be
dangerous—and
he
knew
that.
[Abbate]:The
poem’s
pretty
racy.
At
one
point,
Pandarus
strips
the
swooning
Troilus
and
throws
him
into
bed
with
Criseyde.
That
renunciation
must
have
sprung
from
a
great
faith,
I
think.
God
would
see
through
a
sham
renunciation,
after
all.
And
for
an
author
to
do
that,
to
turn
his
back
on
his
work—it’s
hard
to
imagine.
It
seems
very
noble
and
terrible.
Those poems are
[McCormick]:
As
a
fiction
writer
I’m
struck
by
the
richness,
intensity,
and
some of the most
complexity
of
your
character’s
interior
lives.
Yet
this
too
seems
autobiographical I’ve
Chaucerian;
that
is,
to
let
each
person
speak
for
themself.
Even
you—
ever written. And yet,
Francesca—gets
a
voice
as
the
“Narrator.”
Am
I
right
to
think
of
this
as
of course, they aren’t
influenced
by
Chaucer?
[Abbate]:
Oh,
thank
you.
That’s
an
immense
compliment.
You
fiction
true in the sense of
being factual.
writers—I
look
up
to
you
so
much:
the
work
you
do,
creating
a
world
and
sustaining
it,
structuring
it.
I
sometimes
think
that
this
book
results
from
my
love
of
fiction.
I
love
poems
that
deal
with
character
rather
than
just
the
speaker’s
ruminations,
but
my
work
was
doing
mostly
the
latter.
I
was
sick
of
it.
It
was
so
wonderful
to
hear
these
people
talking
that
when
I
finished
the
manuscript
I
felt
ill.
I
felt,
in
some
way,
gypped.
Why
couldn’t
they
have
kept
talking?
But
it
was
no
use.
It
was
over.
Yes,
I
am
the
narrator.
Or,
to
be
more
exact,
the
speaker
is
the
narrator.
Those
poems
are
some
of
the
most
autobiographical
I’ve
ever
written.
And
yet,
of
course,
they
aren’t
true
in
the
sense
of
being
factual.
Letting
each
person
speak
was
meant
to
be
very
Chaucerian:
one
of
the
things
I
love
and
admire
about
Chaucer’s
poem
is
exactly
how
the
narrator
was
a
presence—telling/shaping
a
story—and
also
how
each
character
has
a
distinct
voice.
They
have
so
much
air
time
in
the
poem.
I
marvel
at
how
that
happens
in
such
a
balanced,
nuanced
way,
and
how
he
manages
all
those
registers.
It’s
symphonic.
80
[McCormick]:
You
say
that
you
were
sick
of
your
poems
being
“ruminations,”
I
think
I
know
what
you
mean:
the
kind
of
narrative,
epiphany‐based
poetry
that
now
seems
so
common.
Who
are
some
poets
that
you
like
to
read
that
work
outside
this
model?
[Abbate]:
There’s
nothing
wrong
with
working
in
that
mode,
of
course,
but
somewhere
along
the
way
I
stopped
trusting
it
for
myself.
There’s
a
kind
of
self‐mythologizing
that
can
happen
if
the
poem’s
in
the
first
person,
for
example,
and
I
started
wondering
to
what
end.
To
impress?
To
seduce?
But
then
again
there’s
such
privilege
in
writing
any
kind
of
poetry.
Who
cares
what
kind
gets
written
and
with
what
motivation?
And
yet,
says
that
stubborn
little
voice.
Regarding
what
I
like
to
read
outside
the
model—well,
I
read
a
lot
of
nonfiction.
But
also
of
course
poetry.
Anne
Carson
pops
to
mind
immediately
for
her
novel‐in‐verse
Autobiography
of
Red.
Anything
that
blurs
genres
interests
me.
Since
I
teach,
I
use
my
courses
(in
part)
to
make
sure
I
get
time
to
read
the
books
that
look
compelling
or
important
for
any
reason.
I
try
to
choose
books
that
represent
a
broad
selection
in
terms
of
style
and
content.
(This
is
a
question
that
troubles
me:
what
are
the
best
books
to
give
students?
But
that’s
another
discussion.)
This
semester
the
list
included
Tracy
K.
Smith’s
Life
on
Mars,
Kevin
Young’s
To
Repel
Ghosts:
The
Remix,
Michael
Dickman’s
Flies,
and
Srikanth
Reddy’s
Readings
in
World
Literature.
Young’s
book
evokes
Jean‐Michel
Basquiat’s
art
and
person
in
an
immersive
way.
It’s
one
of
those
books
that’s
really
hard
to
describe,
but
as
the
back
cover
blurb
from
Art
in
America
puts
it,
“it
may
be
the
best
interpretive
study
yet
of
Basquiat’s
art.”
Also,
Young’s
line
breaks
are
devastating.
You
can
learn
so
much
from
them.
Smith’s
work
is
both
empathetic
and
clear‐sighted,
and
that’s
a
tricky
balance.
It’s
probably
closest
to
the
“narrative,
epiphany‐based
poetry”
you
mention.
But
mostly
it’s
about
other
people.
And
social
injustices
and
tragedies.
And
so
the
epiphanies,
when
they
come,
seem
generous
and
expansive.
You
feel
like
only
someone
who
is
very
wise
and
very
human
could
write
the
poems.
Dickman
is,
I
think,
working
from
the
tradition
of
lyric
epiphany
but
his
epiphanies
are
rapid‐fire
and
unpretty.
They
don’t
close
his
poems.
They
come
in
bursts
and
leave
me
feeling
queasy.
“The
light
is
puking
pure
white
onto
the
ground,”
for
example.
And
then
the
poem
goes
on
like
nothing
horrible
has
happened
and
even
worse
things
happen.
I’d
have
to
say
that
Reddy’s
was
the
book
I
most
looked
forward
to
reading
and
was
most
afraid
of
reading.
I’ve
been
writing
prose
poems
which
include
some
description
of
life
in
the
underworld,
and
Reddy’s
narrator
is
teaching
a
class
called
“Introduction
to
the
Underworld.”
Quite
a
few
of
the
prose
poems
in
his
book
take
place
in
that
classroom
or
meditate
on
some
pretty
dark
matter.
One
of
my
favorite
passages
closes
the
first
poem:
“Contrary
to
the
accounts
of
Mu
Lian,
Odysseus,
and
Kwasi
Benefo,
for
example,
it
is
not
customarily
permitted
to
visit
the
underworld.
No,
the
underworld
visits
you.”
It’s
a
brilliant
and
frightening
and
hilarious
book
and
I
was
scared
I’d
finish
it
and
think,
well,
I
can’t
write
about
that
now.
Actually,
I
do
think
that,
but
I’m
going
to
keep
writing
what
I’m
writing
anyway,
because
I
don’t
know
what
else
to
do.
[McCormick]:
I
find
your
book’s
structure
to
be
really
interesting:
four
sections,
each
prefaced
by
an
epigraph
from
Troilus
and
Criseyde.
The
intertextuality
between
your
lines
and
Chaucer’s
makes
for
a
kind
of
scholar’s
art
here,
yet
the
book
resists
being
esoteric.
Can
you
talk
a
little
bit
about
how
you
decided
on
the
structure
of
the
book—the
four
sections,
the
epigraphs—and
how
you
settled
on
the
six
different
‘voices’.
[Abbate]:
Each
poem
at
one
point
had
its
own
quote
from
Chaucer’s
poem
as
a
title.
The
readers
at
University
of
Chicago
felt
that
it
was
too
much
Chaucer,
and
I’m
sure
they
were
right.
But
cutting
those
lines
was
hard
for
me.
I’d
really
felt
that
each
poem
was
inextricably
linked
to
them.
Umbilical
cords,
they
were.
I
kept
the
longer
quotes
as
section
breaks.
They
point
toward
where
the
book
is
in
terms
of
Chaucer’s
chronology,
and
they’re
beautiful,
of
course,
so
there’s
that.
Chaucer’s
poem
is
in
five
parts.
Oh,
did
I
want
Troy
to
be
in
five
parts.
I
used
a
quote
from
Seth
Lerer’s
book
Chaucer
and
His
Readers
about
an
“incomplete
love
letter”
as
an
epigraph
because
in
the
end
I
felt
as
though
it
was
okay
that
Troy
was
only
four
sections.
It
wasn’t
meant
to
be
whole.
It’s
an
incomplete
love
letter
to
Chaucer
and
his
characters.
About
the
cast
of
characters:
well,
the
history
of
Troilus
and
Criseyde’s
story
is
one
of
borrowings
and
revisions.
Chaucer
wasn’t
the
first
to
tell
it,
and
he
wasn’t
the
last.
(I
got
to
see
Shakespeare’s
play
last
year—it’s
not
produced
that
often,
and
it
was
so
wonderful
to
see
it.)
Helen
plays
a
part
in
Chaucer’s
poem,
as
does
Cassandra,
who’s
Troilus’s
sister.
And
I
did
feel
as
if
I
wanted
some
kind
of
narrator.
The
narrator’s
poems
include
events
that
chime
with
Chaucer’s
plot,
rather
than
echo
them
exactly.
Chaucer’s
narrator
is
repeating
a
story
he’s
read.
82
He’s
both
at
the
mercy
of
story—he
can’t
change
the
outcome—and
in
charge
of
how
it’s
told.
That’s
how
I
felt.
I
really
don’t
know
where
Psyche
came
from.
She’s
not
a
part
of
Chaucer’s
poem.
When
I
wrote
the
poem
that
you
quoted
from
above,
I
didn’t
know
who
the
speaker
was.
I
knew
she
was
mythical,
but
I
didn’t
know
until
I
was
writing
this
book—and
writing
the
poem
about
Psyche
getting
a
chili
dog,
in
particular—that
I
figured
it
out.
Psyche
has
an
epic
quest
in
the
myth
Psyche
and
Cupid,
and
yet
the
tasks
she’s
given
to
accomplish
are
so
domestic.
I
think
I
felt
Psyche’s
presence
as
underpinning
the
story.
She
goes
through
hell,
literally,
but
gets
a
happy
ending—Cupid
and
immortality.
Troy,
Unincorporated
ends
with
Criseyde
falling
in
love
with
Diomedes.
(Chaucer
doesn’t
know
whether
or
not
she’s
in
love
with
him—it’s
as
if
he
just
can’t
imagine
the
scope
of
that
betrayal.)
But
Criseyde
doesn’t
get
to
become
immortal—just
the
opposite,
really.
A
life
begins
for
her,
with
love.
But
love
doesn’t
mean
you
don’t
have
to
go
to
the
dentist.
It
doesn’t
mean
that
the
possibility
for
grave
hurt,
for
betrayal,
for
abandonment,
is
over.
She’s
the
vulnerable
one
at
the
close—especially
since
Troilus
has
died.
[McCormick]:
Earlier
you
mentioned
that
kind
of
hollowed
out
feeling
you
get
when
you
finish
a
manuscript.
I’ve
found
that
if
I
don’t
make
a
radical
formal
or
conceptual
change
from
one
work
to
the
next
it’s
impossible
to
begin
again.
What
has
it
been
like
getting
on
to
the
next
poems
after
Troy?
[Abbate]:
I
really
understand
this,
George.
And
sometimes
I
worry
that
changing
so
drastically
So I started
writing down
lines that I loved
and those lines
grew into a
daybook of
sorts.
from
manuscript
to
manuscript
means
I
don’t
have
a
style.
Look
at
Dickman,
for
example:
his
second
book
sounds
very
much
like
his
first.
Ashbery
sounds
like
Ashbery,
Glück
like
Glück.
But
I
bet
they
feel
as
if
they
make
“radical
formal
or
conceptual”
changes
with
each
new
work.
It
was
hard
to
start
writing
again.
I
was
on
sabbatical,
and
supposed
to
be
writing,
after
all,
but
I
hadn’t
planned
on
a
new
project.
I
thought
I’d
be
revising
Troy,
but
the
publication
schedule
was
faster
than
the
editor
or
I
thought
it
would
be,
and
I
was
done
with
revisions
in
July.
One
day
in
early
fall
I
went
to
the
bookstore
and
was
sitting
outside
with
the
ubiquitous
Starbucks
cappuccino
(is
every
bookstore
connected
to
a
Starbucks?)
flipping
through
my
purchase,
Montaigne’s
Essays—which,
as
I
mentioned
earlier,
I’m
still
reading—and
this
sort
of
scruffy
guy
with
a
cigarette
stopped
in
front
of
me
and
said,
That’s
a
great
book.
You
should
take
notes.
So
I
started
writing
down
lines
that
I
loved
and
those
lines
grew
into
a
daybook
of
sorts
that
included
more
than
Montaigne.
I
was
fairly
depressed
and
sitting
at
home
a
lot
in
Milwaukee
and
getting
obsessed
with
the
weather
and
just
doodling,
really.
And
one
day
I
mistook
the
words
“No
Body”
in
my
own
handwriting
(I
was
quoting
from
a
newspaper
article
about
a
woman
found
dead
on
the
trail
I
bike)
for
“Not
Baby.”
I
had
also
recently
come
across
a
mention
of
Persephone’s
daughter
Melinoe,
whose
name
means
“dark
thought.”
And
these
sort
of
disparate
pieces
started
coming
together
during
an
unsettling
period
of
coincidences
and
other
weirdnesses
and
I
started
writing
long
prose
poems
about
Not
Baby,
aka
Melinoe.
I
don’t
know
what’s
going
to
happen.
I
couldn’t
ignore
the
plot
arc
in
Chaucer’s
poem
when
I
was
writing
Troy,
and
I
think
it
helped
give
me
structure.
I
feel
pretty
much
at
sea
now
and
may
be
for
a
while.
I
know
some
people
who
can
write
during
the
school
year,
but
I’m
not
one
of
them.
So
that’s
difficult,
because
I
only
really
write
during
summer.
It
could
be
years
before
I
find
my
way,
and
I
might
have
to
throw
everything
out
to
get
there.
It’s
okay,
though.
I
generally
write
out
of
a
sense
of
desperation
anyway.
Is
that
true
of
many
writers?
Most
writers?
I
feel
like
it
is,
but
maybe
I
can’t
imagine
writing
from
a
place
less
fraught
or
necessary.
84
Contributors
Jose
Angel
Araguz
has
had
work
most
recently
in
Slipstream,
Gulf
Coast,
and
Apple
Valley
Review
as
well
as
featured
in
Ted
Kooser's
American
Life
in
Poetry.
His
chapbook,
The
Wall,
is
published
by
Tiger's
Eye
Press.
He
is
presently
pursuing
a
PhD
in
Creative
Writing
at
the
University
of
Cincinnati.
Casey
Brown
is
from
Pendleton,
Oregon.
She
is
pursuing
her
Bachelor’s
degree
in
Creative
Writing
at
Cameron
University.
Her
flash
fiction
piece
“Passive
Voice”
was
a
co‐winner
of
the
Page
One
Gallery
at
Scissortail
Creative
Writing
Festival
in
2013.
She
is
a
staff
writer
for
the
Cameron
Collegian,
a
member
of
Sigma
Tau
Delta,
and
a
tutor.
Casey
lives,
studies,
and
writes
in
Lawton,
Oklahoma.
James
Brubaker
lives
and
writes
in
Oklahoma.
His
short
stories
have
appeared
or
are
forthcoming
in
venues
including
Zoetrope:
All
Story,
Hobart,
Michigan
Quarterly
Review,
The
Normal
School,
and
Web
Conjunctions,
among
others.
Look
for
James'
short
collection
of
fake
pilot
episodes,
Pilot
Season
(Sunnyoutside
Press),
and
his
debut
full‐length
story
collection
Liner
Notes
(Subito
Press)
in
2014.
James
is
also
an
associate
editor
for
The
Collapsar.
Nick
Brush
is
an
Army
veteran
currently
pursuing
a
bachelor’s
degree
in
Creative
Writing
at
Cameron
University.
He
is
originally
from
Rogers,
Arkansas,
but
has
traveled
to
many
different
places
with
his
time
in
the
military.
He
enjoys
both
reading
and
writing
poetry,
and
hopes
to
share
his
love
of
poetry
with
students
of
his
own
one
day.
Jim
Davis
is
a
graduate
of
Knox
College
and
an
MFA
candidate
at
Northwestern
University.
Jim
lives,
writes,
and
paints
in
Chicago,
where
he
edits
the
North
Chicago
Review.
His
work
has
appeared
or
is
forthcoming
in
Seneca
Review,
Adirondack
Review,
The
Midwest
Quarterly,
and
Columbia
Literary
Review
among
nearly
three
hundred
publications.
Jim
is
the
winner
of
multiple
contests,
prizes,
Editor's
Choice
awards,
and
a
recent
nomination
for
Best
of
the
Net
Anthology.
His
book,
Assumption
(Unbound
Content,
2013)
will
soon
be
followed
by
book
two,
Earthmover
(Unbound
Content).
Phil
Estes
work
has
recently
appeared
in
Everyday
Genius,
The
Lifted
Brow,
and
Lungfull!
He
lives
in
Tulsa,
Oklahoma.
Over
one
hundred
of
David
Galef’s
poems
have
appeared
in
magazines
ranging
from
Shenandoah
and
Witness
to
The
Yale
Review
and
Literary
Imagination.
He
has
published
over
a
dozen
volumes,
including
novels,
short
story
collections,
translation,
and
criticism,
but
also
the
86
poetry
book
Flaws
and
two
chapbooks
of
verse,
Lists
and
Apocalypses.
He
is
a
professor
of
English
and
the
creative
writing
program
director
at
Montclair
State
University.
Ashley
Galan
is
a
sophomore
at
Cameron
University
and
a
member
of
the
Comanche
Nation
Tribe
of
Oklahoma.
When
not
doing
homework
she
spends
all
of
her
time
reading.
She
lives
in
Lawton,
Oklahoma
with
her
husband.
Katherine
Liontas‐Warren,
Professor
of
Art
at
Cameron
University
has
been
a
resident
of
Oklahoma
since
1984,
where
she
teaches
drawing,
watercolor,
and
printmaking.
Katherine
has
a
Master
of
Fine
Art
from
Texas
Tech
University
and
a
Bachelor
of
Science
from
Southern
Connecticut.
She
is
a
recipient
of
the
Bhattacharya
Research
Excellence
Award
and
the
Faculty
Hall
of
Fame
at
Cameron
University.
Katherine
received
the
title
of
Artist
of
the
Year
by
the
Paseo
Art
Association
in
Oklahoma
City
and
the
Artist
and
Educator
of
the
Year
through
the
Lawton
Arts
and
Humanities
Council.
Katherine
has
exhibited
her
works
of
art
in
over
350
exhibitions
throughout
the
United
States
and
abroad,
and
has
received
numerous
purchase
and
juried
awards.
Many
of
her
prints
and
drawings
are
in
permanent
collections
in
Museums
and
institutions
throughout
the
nation
such
as
Austin
Peay
University,
Arkansas
Art
Center,
Museum
of
Texas
Tech
University:
The
Artist
Printmaker
Research
Collection,
The
Wichita
Falls
Museum
of
Art
at
Midwestern
University,
Oklahoma
State
University,
University
of
Louisiana
at
Lafayette,
University
of
Colorado,
University
of
North
Dakota,
Oklahoma
Art
Institute:
Quartz
Mountain
Lodge,
Del
Mar
College,
University
of
Wisconsin‐Madison,
Whitman
College
in
Walla
Walla,
Butler
Community
College
in
Kansas,
University
of
Science
and
Arts
of
Oklahoma,
Leslie
Powell
Art
Foundation
Gallery,
Milwaukee
Museum
of
Art,
Mabee‐
Gerrer
Museum
of
Art,
and
Nicolls
State
University.
Rachel
Parker
Martin
holds
a
Bachelor’s
degree
in
English
Literature
from
the
Florida
State
University,
and
plans
to
enter
graduate
school
to
pursue
her
Master’s
degree
in
Modern
Spanish
Language
and
Literature.
She
has
self‐published
one
chapbook
of
poetry
Small
Moves:
A
Collection
of
Poems
about
Love,
Distance,
Sea
and
Stars.
She
enjoys
learning
different
languages,
traveling
with
her
studies,
and
curling
up
with
a
good
book.
George
McCormick
has
published
stories,
most
recently,
in
Sugar
Mule,
Epoch,
Santa
Monica
Review,
and
Willow
Springs.
He
was
a
2013
O.
Henry
Prize
winner
and
his
book,
Salton
Sea,
was
published
in
2012
by
Noemi
Press.
He
lives
in
Lawton,
Oklahoma
and
is
teaching
in
the
Department
of
English
and
Foreign
Languages
at
Cameron
University.
Zarah
Moeggenberg
is
a
poet
living
in
the
upper
peninsula
of
Michigan.
She
is
a
Master
of
Fine
Arts
Poetry
Candidate
at
Northern
Michigan
University
and
Associate
Poetry
Editor
of
Passages
North.
She
has
been
most
recently
published
in
The
Fourth
River,
ellipsis…literature
and
art,
Diverse
Voices
Quarterly,
and
SunDog
Lit.
She
has
work
forthcoming
in
Ellipsis
Lit
Mag,
among
other
publications.
Phong
Nguyen
is
the
author
of
Pages
from
the
Textbook
of
Alternate
History
(Queen's
Ferry
Press,
2014)
and
Memory
Sickness
and
Other
Stories
(Elixir
Press,
2011).
He
currently
serves
as
editor
of
Pleiades
and
Pleiades
Press,
for
which
he
coedited
the
volume
Nancy
Hale:
The
Life
and
Work
of
a
Lost
American
Master
with
Dan
Chaon.
He
is
an
Associate
Professor
at
the
University
of
Central
Missouri
in
Warrensburg,
Missouri,
where
he
lives
with
his
wife—the
artist
Sarah
Nguyen—
and
their
three
sons.
Rob
Roensch
won
The
International
Scott
Prize
for
Short
Stories
in
2012
from
Salt
Publishing
for
his
collection
titled
The
Wildflowers
of
Baltimore.
He
teaches
at
Oklahoma
City
University.
His
website
is
https://sites.google.com/site/robroensch/
Jordan
Sanderson
earned
a
PhD
from
the
Center
for
Writers
at
the
University
of
Southern
Mississippi.
His
work
has
recently
appeared
in
Red
Earth
Review,
The
Meadow,
Gigantic
Sequins,
and
NANO
Fiction.
He
lives
on
the
Mississippi
Gulf
Coast.
Nicole
Santalucia
serves
as
the
poetry
editor
of
Binghamton
University’s
literary
journal,
Harpur
Palate.
Her
work
has
appeared
in
Bayou
Magazine,
Gertrude,
and
others.
She
currently
teaches
creative
writing
and
is
a
PhD
candidate
in
English
at
Binghamton
University.
Andrea
Spofford
writes
poems
and
essays.
Some
of
which
can
be
found
or
are
forthcoming
in
Sugar
House
Review,
Vela
Magazine,
Kudzu
Review,
Revolver,
paper
nautilus,
and
others.
Her
chapbook
Everything
Combustible
is
available
from
dancing
girl
press
and
her
second
chapbook
is
forthcoming
from
Red
Bird
Press
in
2014.
Andrea
is
poetry
editor
of
Zone
3
Press
and
lives
and
works
in
Tennessee.
Constance
Squires
is
the
author
of
Along
the
Watchtower
(Riverhead/Penguin),
which
won
the
2012
Oklahoma
Book
Award
for
Fiction,
and
the
recently
completed
Live
from
Medicine
Park,
of
which
the
story
in
this
issue
is
an
excerpt.
Her
short
fiction
has
appeared
in
the
Atlantic
Monthly,
This
Land,
New
Delta
Review,
Eclectica,
Bayou
and
other
magazines.
Her
nonfiction
has
appeared
in
Salon,
the
Village
Voice,
the
New
York
Times,
and
on
the
NPR
program
Snap
Judgment.
A
short
film
project,
entitled
Grave
Misgivings,
which
she
wrote
and
narrates
is
underway
with
Sundance
fellow
and
Caddo
County
native
Jeffrey
Palmer.
It's
about
Geronimo's
grave.
B.
Tacconi
is
a
senior
at
the
University
of
Houston
where
she
studies
creative
writing
and
anthropology.
Her
poems
have
appeared
or
are
forthcoming
in
Glass
Mountain
and
Houston
&
Nomadic
Voices.
Megan
Vered’s
work
has
been
published
or
is
forthcoming
in
the
“First
Person”
column
of
the
San
Francisco
Chronicle,
the
Diverse
Arts
Project,
Mezzo
Cammin,
Amarillo
Bay,
and
she
is
among
the
authors
featured
in
the
“Story
Chairs”
short
story
installation
at
Jack
Straw
88
Productions
in
Seattle.
Following
her
mother’s
death
in
2011,
she
penned
a
family
story
that
she
sent
to
her
siblings
every
Friday.
This
essay
is
part
of
that
collection.
90