YOU CAN SHARE THIS by Maria Zorn
On a red-eye flight hurtling toward New York City, I observed my sleeping mother’s face. The glow of the reading light she’d forgotten to shut off illuminated the gentle slope of her nose, the pink moles on her cheeks. The plane was oddly silent, minus the toneless hum planes always make. Something about the quiet made it feel like this moment would never end, that I’d get to gaze upon her forever, counting the pores on her forehead. She seemed familiar but foreign, someone I didn’t know but very much wanted to, almost like I had a crush on her.
It had been eighteen months since my mom called to tell me my brother had died. Six years since my dad shot himself, four since my mother’s father hanged himself. Our pile of dead men was so tall we couldn’t step over them. We needed a stool.
I was nearly twenty-three, the oldest my older brother would ever be. We were headed to the city to celebrate my birthday. How did my mom feel about this, I wondered, her youngest becoming as old as her oldest? He and I were finally going to be twins, which we’d been telling strangers in bars we were for years. Everyone believed us. Tall, broad-shouldered, the gravelly voices, the throaty laughs. We moved our heads too much when we talked, like chickens. It’d be even worse when I turned twenty-four, impossibly more tragic to be older than Tomm would ever be. Had my mom considered this yet? I wished I knew.
I always wanted to be like my mother. I imitated her bubbly disposition, I had her same broad smile and frizzy hair. When I got my braces off and discovered that my teeth, though straight now and without large gaps between them, did not look like hers, I felt ripped off. Her teeth were perfect, and I’d worn my rubber bands and threaded floss through the wiring of my braces so that I would resemble her. But my teeth, as it turned out, were smaller, my smile gummier. My frizzy hair typically remained frizzy even if I tried to beat it into submission with a blow dryer, but she could tame hers into soft blonde curls that fell around her square jaw.
My mom and I worked as a team to survive my father and then to help Tomm survive his own recklessness. We passed our first mission and failed our second. After Tomm died I could hug her, I could press her into my chest until I felt her rigid body soften, and then several months later I could hardly stand to look at her. Her eyes reflected back all of the guilt and anguish I was desperately attempting to stave off. This trip felt like the kind you take when trying to reconcile with an ex, in a sense. I had spent most of my life feeling certain that nothing could ever come between my mother and me, but now I was not so sure. No belief was unshakeable anymore, no love unconditional.
***
When my mom told me that Tomm went to sleep and didn’t wake up, her voice sounded like she was controlled by a ventriloquist. I could picture her mouth jerked open, slammed shut. Her poor jaw. I was living in New York with her and my brother, but on a trip to Phoenix, visiting my partner. My mom’s ex-boyfriend found me at Target, where I was shopping for socks, and made me come with him so I could answer my mom’s call someplace quiet, as if the news would be more palatable if we escaped the store’s fluorescent lights. After she told me, I wanted to offer her some kind of balm, but I couldn’t conjure anything up. All I could do was argue.
“Why? How? How? How does a twenty-three-year-old fall asleep and not wake up? A twenty-three-year-old doesn’t fall asleep and not wake up.” I wanted to shake her through the phone because didn’t she care enough to even guess what had happened? How was she so quickly accepting this new fate?
“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” she said.
I felt like I was a child again, getting screamed at by my father. When he’d yell, I wouldn’t meet his eyes and insist he be different. I’d instead look at my mom and think: Why aren’t you making this stop? Can’t you do something? I was twenty-one now but I still wanted my mother to be a god. She didn’t have an answer to any of these questions. The only sound on the other line was a sharp inhale, one meant to usurp a sob. I pictured the ventriloquist who was making her say these words. Nothing was her fault, obviously, and this deflated my rage. We were both silent for a while. Then, the only words I could mold with my tongue were her words, parroted back to her: “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” I said it again and again. I mourned my mother in that moment just like I mourned my brother, for she would never again be the same person; now, always, a woman who once held her son’s still body in her arms.
When she hung up the phone to speak with the police, I locked myself in the bathroom and knelt on the tiled floor in front of the toilet, waiting for vomit to come. I tried to focus on the way the grout pushed into the skin of my knees. Time passed, and then my boyfriend Chris’s voice was on the other side of the door saying, “Baby, let me in.” I crawled to the handle and twisted the lock. He’d been at the gym and was wearing sweaty shorts. He closed the door behind him and sat on the ledge of the bathtub. I licked his calf to taste its salt. I told him Tomm had gone to sleep and didn’t wake up, but that I didn’t understand why. At some point Chris transferred me from the bathroom to the car and I was told my mom’s ex-boyfriend was buying me a ticket to New York for that evening. He offered to buy Chris a ticket too, but Chris declined. I don’t remember the ride to Chris’s house, whether I texted my mom, if I packed my clothes or if he did. I can vaguely recall sitting cross-legged in the bed of his old pickup truck, eating a Filet-O-Fish sandwich from McDonald’s in the hundred-degree afternoon heat. There was, apparently, a drive to the airport and a flight out of Phoenix and a cab ride into the city. There was a key to find in my purse and there were steps to walk up to get to our apartment. How all of this happened is unclear to me. I had been picked up like a pin and dropped 2,400 miles away. In memory, there is only the bathroom, rank with Chris’s sweat, then the fish sandwich with its slimy yellow cheese, then walking into my mom’s arms, clutching one another like we’d fall into quicksand if we ever let go. The first few days after it happened, we couldn’t stop looking at photos of Tomm. He is a tiny blur from running in circles yelling, “Green grapes, green grapes,” a phrase he loved to shout for some reason when he was three; he is hunched over a pile of toys, showing me how to play with Barbies, teaching me how to give them names and backstories and problems; he is wearing a Roc-A-Wear gray velour tracksuit with freshly buzzed hair and tinted glasses, holding a folded-up piece of paper containing lyrics to a song he’d written; he is gothic, then a raver, then cloaked in a mink stole; then he’s prancing around New York City wearing six-inch platforms, his hair dyed platinum blonde, midnight blue, DayGlo orange. Each photo is of someone we lost. We lost hundreds of Tomms.
Tomm got a tattoo that said my way on the side of his left hand two days before he died. He had heard Frank Sinatra’s song and decided this was a sentiment he wanted on his body forever.
His friend Leslie accompanied him to the tattoo shop in Williamsburg. Before they went in, they went to the bar next door and ordered pickleback shots. Leslie had written my way in her notebook multiple times in slightly different handwriting – slanted, jagged, loopy – and Tomm selected one. He posted a photo of himself getting the tattoo, and in it his eyes are downcast, serenely admiring his new ink. He looks like someone who wants to let this tattoo heal, then get another one, and another one.
My mom, Tomm’s friends Billy and Leslie, and I returned to the tattoo shop the week after Tomm’s death. We had the original slip of paper on which Leslie had written my way. “Do you remember tattooing this on someone last week?” we asked the artist.
“Of course,” he replied. “Is there anything wrong with his tattoo?”
“He died,” my mom said.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” The man was very tall and had tattoos that went from his neck all the way up to his bald head, meaty red roses hanging off of thorny vines.
We told him that we would like to get the same tattoo as Tomm. As the artist prepared his station, we went to the bar next door and ordered pickleback shots. Why the pickleback, when you usually order champagne or a gin and tonic or a spicy margarita? I wanted to ask him. I didn’t know we liked pickleback shots. Strange.
When we went back to the tattoo shop, the artist was blasting Frank Sinatra’s song on surround sound. The tattoo gun whirred loudly but the music was louder. And now, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain, Sinatra crooned. When it was my mom’s turn, I could hardly stand to look at her. I’d never seen another human look more hopeless than in that moment, not even in movies. She was too sad for tears. Her whole face looked like someone had grabbed it and pulled it downward. The tattoo artist started to cry.
During the days that followed, my new tattoo still puffy and red, I aimlessly walked around the city like a zombie, I took the subway to nowhere. Back against the hard plastic seat of the E-train, I saw Tomm sitting across from me with his legs in a figure four shape, the pussybow on his black blouse fanning out from his collarbone like flower petals. His head was tilted slightly to the right. He was appraising something, but what? The outline of his body was entirely serrated. You couldn’t touch him without getting cut. I didn’t get off the train until he disappeared. Never quite figured out what he was thinking.
My mom and I struggled to grieve together. We both knew that our combined sorrow was too large for any container available to us: the apartment, the street, the city. When one of us became emotional, the other became stoic in an equal but opposite measure. One crumbled, the other held her breath. Then switch, then switch, again. There was no collective exhale. I didn’t know what to say when we were in a room alone together. I wanted her to be an antidote but instead she was evidence, this human who birthed and raised us, that Tomm was once here and now he was gone.
If the memory of Tomm was serrated, then the memory of my grandfather was polished and smooth like a nickel. I could turn him over in my hand whenever I chose. My dad was slippery, covered in oil. If I pictured them all side by side on the subway, they didn’t seem like they knew one another. A wide-backed old Polish man in a flannel shirt, twinkly blue eyes, so sentimental that he’d stand at the end of his driveway and cry whenever our car pulled away at the end of a visit. A forty-six-year-old with hands shaking, bags under his eyes, every feature could be described as shadowy, a man who grew up on welfare, became a millionaire, then lost it all and grew addicted to alcohol and opioids. The first hanged himself after his wife died and the second shot himself because he believed he was never going to get better, he was never going to be able to stop tormenting us. And then, of course, there was Tomm. A nightcap after a Grindr date, went to sleep and never woke up.
I wanted these deaths to fit into one another tidily, like Russian dolls. I wanted each one to make more room for the next. I wanted my mom and I to become better at grieving every time, and instead it felt like my entire body was made of overstretched muscles. We did not have the capacity for this. We were too battered.
The toothpaste hardened in the sink bowl was Tomm’s. I knew this to be true because it bothered me that he didn’t rinse it off and I told him this a hundred times. I stared at the blue calcified lump and wondered if I could make it soft again. If I hit it with a blow dryer, maybe that would do it. But then what? Would I rub it into my skin like a lotion? Yes, that’s exactly what I’d do. How could I explain this desire to anyone, even my mother? I kept staring at the sink and the ceramic gleamed white. There was no toothpaste. I’d imagined it.
I kept walking past the Molly Wee, a rank Irish pub we tolerated solely due to its proximity, where I once paid Tomm five dollars to drink a bottle of Miller High Life. Five dollars plus the cost of the beer, that is. He’d sat across from me wearing a black and white Mongolian lamb vest so voluptuous he was nearly drowning in it and we giggled over how hilarious he looked with a beer in his hand. “You need to be on TV,” I told him.
“I know it,” he’d said.
After he’d finished his beer Tomm ordered us a round of Hendricks gin and tonics, then a second, third, fourth. That night we didn’t mind that the bar smelled like the urine of a man who had consumed both Seagram’s 7 and a vitamin B tablet. We’d clasped our hands together, elbows resting on the sticky epoxied wood table, and told each other: I love you, I don’t know what I’d do without you, you’re the best sibling in the world. Our eyes welled. Tomm’s fingers were reddish-purple from the cold, from his poor circulation. I hadn’t known how it was possible to worry about him like a second mother, but idolize him the same way I did as a child. He blinked his big eyes, his eyelashes thick and dark and grouping together like Twiggy’s from the tears that clung to the ledge of his lids. I remember thinking how beautiful he was, even with his eyeliner all smeared like that. The sides of his icy fingers cooled mine, which had warmed from the Molly Wee’s wheezing furnace. He’d felt already partly dead. In three more months, he’d be completely.
I was certain I’d die right there on the gum-smeared pavement if I saw that neon Miller beer sign one more time, the sadness would just sweep me right into the gutter.
I look back now and my actions feel impossibly selfish, but I told my mom I couldn’t stay in New York with her. I was too broken to see Tomm’s shadow all over the city. On Eighth Avenue, the sex shop where we bought poppers to sniff on our way to parties; on Thirtieth Street, the pizza place from which we ordered delivery in the winter despite that it was located directly beneath our apartment. My mom clung to the city as much as I fled from it, dusting every surface for his fingerprints.
When I was back in Arizona, I went to dive bars that Tomm would’ve hated. Checkered floors, dartboards, stickers covering every square inch of the bathroom stalls. There was no trace of him there. Drunkenly fighting with Chris in alleys littered with overflowing dumpsters, I could convince myself, even if just for a second, that none of it had happened. Chris was fourteen years my senior. He had massive muscles and wore ripped tank tops that exposed his nipples as he bent to scoop ice at his bartending job. He slicked back his ringlets with pomade and wore a bandana as a headband, perhaps to cover his receding hairline or maybe it was just part of his brand. I started dressing like him: combat boots, ripped skinny jeans. I bought a New Order band t-shirt. I felt certain there was a shape I could contort myself into that would make Chris love me more if only I tried hard enough. It felt good to have a job, it felt good to be a different person.
I requested a copy of the toxicology report from Tomm’s death. My mom said she didn’t want to know anything more, but I hungered for answers. The letter took weeks to arrive and when it did, I couldn’t open it. It sat on my bedside table next to a stack of unread books and my yellowing retainers. I slept on the opposite side of the bed from it, as if it might explode during the night. When I finally worked up the courage to unseal the thickly stuffed envelope, I stared at the list of things that killed my brother: Xanax, Adderall, alcohol, cocaine. I knew he consumed these things. But then I saw heroin. It was not cocaine then, the white powder sitting beside him when he died, but this. Should I tell my mom? The word bore into my skull, heroin heroin heroin heroin until, when she and I were catching up on the phone about who knows what, I just spat that fact out, as if it were information that could be relayed in any old way, as if it wouldn’t obliterate her. She responded, “Hmm,” softly, like she’d consider it.
I wrote about the losses of my grandfather, father, and brother during this time, in the context of inheritance. When I read the words later it seemed as if I had forgotten that it was my maternal, not paternal, grandfather who died by suicide. His death was related to my father’s only in that they both were suicides and they both impacted my family. Outside of that, they were like an apple and a chinchilla. Packaging all three men together made me feel better when I wrote it down though, a line of dominoes that fell. The inevitability of it softened the guilt that I hadn’t done enough to prevent the deaths from happening. This notion made things easier and harder at once, because at the same time: I didn’t want Tomm’s death to be inevitable. I wanted it to be the most specific tragedy there ever was.
Chris would come home from his bartending shifts at 4AM to find me in our bed, still awake. He used to put on classical music when he left for work to soothe his old bulldog. The dog’s former owner had been sent to prison and he was extremely anxious as a result. He came with the name Deez, as in “deez nuts.” Now, instead of typing: relaxing music for neurotic dog into YouTube, Chris put on an infinite loop of Tom Rosenthal songs and left me lying board-stiff on my back. Stripes of light would come in between the blinds and crawl down my belly as the sunlight waned. My mom had discovered Tom Rosenthal on the first plane ride she took after finding Tomm’s body. His songs made her think of Tomm, so they made me think of Tomm. If the songs meant something to her, they meant something to me. I don’t know why I couldn’t tell her that. I knew she was lying awake too, steeping in hurt with her phone by her side. Was grief lessened when shared? We were too scared to find out. What if it doubled when shared, like joy?
At night I’d stare at the red onion skin of my shut eyelids and think: Why did you tell him he was driving you crazy when you were in Vegas together a few weeks before he died? So what if he was trying to buy PCP off someone at the pool, you shouldn’t have shamed him. Why didn’t you act more remorseful when you borrowed his favorite pencil skirt and ripped it when you were getting out of a cab? Why did you say you didn’t want to live in New York just because you knew it would hurt him? He adored the city like a lover. If I had been more patient, he’d still be alive. If I had been kinder, more supportive, more loving, harder on him, easier on him, I could have snatched the heroin right out of his nose.
Blame is covered in porcupine pins. Sometimes it feels like we have to toss it around after someone has died until we find the right person to catch it and hold it and we can watch their hands bleed and feel better until we remember that the dead human we love is still made of fine dust now.
My brother was named after my dad. Thomas. These deaths were related, sure, but was it inheritance? I pictured the brother who ends up like my dad. He has well-defined biceps and drinks whiskey and is mean to his girlfriend. That brother dies from an overdose, and it feels like tragedy begetting more tragedy. That brother is not my brother. And yet.
When Tomm cried, he fanned his face like his palms were paper fans. Driving the Toyota Camry that he hated because it was gray, not black, he’d grip the steering wheel daintily with his right hand and dangle a Parliament Light 100 out the window with his left, he’d shimmy his bony shoulders as he belted Britney Spears. When he danced he seemed boneless, he grew extra limbs, joy spurted out of him. He was effervescent. He considered legally nixing the “Jr.” that followed his name, he added the extra “m,” Tom and Tomm, different.
Tomm did not routinely use heroin, but he drank too much, treated pharmaceutical drugs like they were Skittles, never ate enough. He numbed his feelings with alcohol, shushed his past with pills. His death was self-inflicted but seemed accidental, like that of a child who runs out into the street to get his ball without looking each way and gets hit by a car. Or no, maybe a child who keeps throwing the ball into the street.
Did tragedy beget more tragedy? Sometimes I thought about grabbing the biggest rock I could find and letting myself sink to the bottom of a very deep lake. Stay there. How my hair would undulate underwater, a peaceful way to go I’d read. And then what of my mom? Tragedy begetting tragedy begetting tragedy.
My mom stayed in New York for several months after Tomm died. She wasn’t sleeping much at all and would often go for threeor four-hour walks around the city in the middle of the night. A close family friend came to stay with her and this was how she could escape his watchful eye, sneaking out like a teenager. Before Tomm died, this would have made her feel unsafe. Now, she didn’t care. While I thought of suicide in a more concrete way, I wondered if this was her own way of flirting with death. Choosing a dark street to walk down, seeing what happened.
She called me quite often, and I updated her the way I would a distant great-aunt, not the person with whom I used to share every detail of my life. I felt she was too fragile to hear about how I was actually doing. Whenever I considered initiating contact, I thought about how much she loved Tomm, how good a mother she was. I pictured the time she got into a car accident on her way to work from crying so hard after having to leave her sick baby boy at daycare; I pictured her covertly driving around the elementary school playground during recess to make sure Tomm wasn’t getting bullied for being gay again; I pictured her pushing the locksmith away from Tomm’s door when he finally got it open, protecting the young man from what he was about to see: her son’s dead body. Or perhaps she was protecting Tomm one last time, giving his corpse a few more moments of dignity before he would be poked and prodded and investigated. Lit on fire. My arm would freeze, suspended in the air with my phone in my hand. How could I possibly lessen her pain? I was the person who was supposed to bring her the most solace, and instead I brought her none. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her, I thought. It was that I loved her too much. I buckled under the weight of it.
Sometimes, Chris would prop me up like a ragdoll when he got home and say: “Take a few deep breaths, drink some water, we’re walking the dogs.” Wearing his giant t-shirt and boxers, I’d stumble around the block and listen to him talk, incoherently interjecting random questions as if he were Google. This habit of mine reminded me of the Wikipedia rabbit holes Tomm and I would go down when we were high together. All we needed was our first search, then we’d click a link embedded within the webpage, then another.
Mount Vesuvius, epigram, Niko Kazantzakis. Who was Niko Kazantzakis? He once said: I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.
“Who wrote Still Life With Woodpecker?” I asked Chris.
“Tom Robbins.”
“Did you ever show Tomm that video of Klaus Nomi?”
“Uh yup, I think I did.”
“What type of bird is that chirping?”
“Mourning doves.”
“Morning like sun or mourning like death?”
“Mourning like death.”
“No really,” I said.
“Really.”
One night he pulled me out of bed but didn’t reach for the dogs’ leashes. He said, “Follow me,” and walked past our bookshelf made of cinder blocks and two-by-fours, through the kitchen, out the back door. Dawn cloaked our dusty desert yard in gold and there was a smattering of pastel purple bits in the sky, muddled blackberries. Chris unsheathed a Japanese sword he’d found at the bar that night, long and curved, and used two hands to pass it to me. He pulled a watermelon seemingly out of nowhere, tossed it up into the sky, and shouted: “Slice!” as I swung murderously at the fruit. He picked up the two halves and threw one up, then the other. We continued on like this until my bleary eyes couldn’t spot the last remaining hunk of green speckled rind, chest heaving. I went back to bed feeling both empty and sated, like I’d accomplished something grand. I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free.
Every platitude offered was glib and stupid. I didn’t care that people were trying. How terrible an era to grieve, when you’re in your early twenties and laughably self-involved. No one had ever experienced a similar loss, of this I was certain. I received Facebook messages that someone’s uncle had died earlier that year, that Tomm was in a better place, that their sister’s coworker’s brother just passed away and would I be willing to give them advice? Ah yes, just what the newly bereaved long for, to be a volunteer psychologist. I banged on the keys of my laptop like a toddler, then reprimanded myself. What they are offering is love. Take it, give it, please. I responded, eventually, to each and every message. I told people how sorry I was for their loss, I thanked them, I talked to their sister’s coworker whose brother had just died and told her things I didn’t yet believe, like: you’ll be okay in time.
Find an unhealthy relationship with which to preoccupy yourself, I wanted to say. Hide from the people who love you most. Externalize your locus of control. These strategies were not therapist-approved, but she asked how I got through it, didn’t she?
Tomm’s memorial was held in New York City on July 24th, nearly two months after he passed away. It would have been his golden birthday. He was supposed to be in Greece – proof that he didn’t mean to overdose, proof that he regretted trying heroin that night. He was meant to be on a sandy beach for a friend’s wedding, drinking ouzo, splashing in the water, blue and white checkered tablecloths, platform sandals, octopus, he loved octopus, he’d be eating octopus, he was so fucking excited for this trip.
Before the mourners arrived, we gathered with Tomm’s closest friends on a white leather couch in a white loft in Chelsea that was so bright it burned my eyes. Leslie projected a video compilation she’d made of Tomm on a white wall. There he appeared, so large that we could live inside him. The video begins with him getting ready to bungee jump in Chiang Mai, Thailand. He’s on a platform hundreds of feet above the ground, palm tree fronds bouncing gently in the breeze below him. His eyeliner is quite smudged. He’s wearing a black tank top that has a crucifix on it with a note tied around the top that says: “BRB!” I’d gone bungee jumping at the same place a few years before. It almost felt like it was somewhere that I could go meet him. If I went now, he’d come soon. He’d be right back.
The man assisting with his jump reads out instructions to Tomm.
“Number one: put your hand like this:”
Tomm wraps his long fingers around the scaffolding.
“Number two: stand on the edge, like this.”
Tomm doesn’t let the man get to number three before he says, “Throw yourself over?” He’s drunk. He says this with a smile, with a wink.
After the service, Tomm’s friends wanted to go out. The plan was to meet at the Boom Boom Room, on the roof of the Standard Hotel. My mom didn’t want to go. Chris and I went back to the apartment with her and waited awkwardly for her sisters to come, so we could go party without leaving her alone. The living room felt like a hospital waiting room. Chris had gotten mad at me a few nights before because I didn’t want to stay out with him. Watching him sing “Thunderstruck” at a karaoke bar in Midtown versus back in Phoenix didn’t feel revolutionary. I didn’t understand why he needed to be out so late doing the same things he did at home. He’d told me I was being selfish. You do realize I’ve never been to New York before, don’t you? Telling him my brother had just died felt so obvious as to be insulting, so I kept my mouth shut and did what he wanted.
When my mom’s sisters got to the apartment, I stared at her vacant face before we left. I will not be choosing you tonight, my actions told her. I hope I said I was sorry.
My mom and her ex had broken up the night Tomm died. He wanted her to be a stepmother to his young children, to move back to Arizona, but she refused to leave Tomm. When she did move home months later, she asked Shane to give their relationship another chance. He said no. He’d already started seeing someone else. She began running every day, up and down the canal behind her house. Her dirty tennis shoes held her upright, except for when they didn’t. We didn’t live together anymore and I couldn’t let myself imagine what this compounded grieving process looked like for her. So mostly I just pictured her spending all day every day running.
Once, we got drunk together and I held her as she cried about losing Shane. How cruel it was that she was not allowed this anodyne. Another man on the pile. He wasn’t dead, but she still had to grieve him. Not a stool. She needed a ladder.
I saw my mom living and mourning and moving through her days on her own and said to myself: I do not want that. I stayed in my relationship with Chris for far too long and devolved into the worst version of myself: jealous, histrionic. Maybe I believed I was training my mourning muscles. I knew that there was no chance we would work out, so when things were good I was preemptively depressed about how much it was going to hurt to lose him and when things were bad, I thought: not yet not yet not yet and did everything possible to fix us, to throw myself down like a human patch.
When I finally left, I sobbed as I packed up my things. At first his eyes welled up and he asked me not to go. Once he realized I was really leaving, he hardened. “Okay tiger,” he said, like he was a Little League coach. “Get moving.” We’d been together for over two years by then. With his arms crossed, he stood watching me as I packed all of my belongings into reusable grocery bags. I carried them out to the car by myself.
I moved back in with my mom and pushed through the following weeks and months like wading through thick seaweed. Losing Tomm made every other anguish in my life seem like a minor inconvenience: a fender bender in a CVS parking lot, accidentally buying decaffeinated coffee, my favorite pen running out of ink. But it did not shrink my parting with Chris. The energy I spent attempting to hold our broken relationship together was reallocated to pining for him. I saw my mom living and mourning and moving through her days, less alone because I lived with her but still proverbially alone, and she seemed to be doing better and better. There was more color in her face. She didn’t run as much as I had imagined, but she did run a lot. I wanted to be like her, but my feet felt like bricks.
When I got invited to go out to bars in Old Town Scottsdale by girls with whom I went to high school, I’d get black-out drunk. I’d wake up in my bed––sometimes in the outfit I went out in and sometimes naked with one arm fully submerged in a bag of Doritos––and have no idea how I got there, or how I got the purplish-yellow bruises that would appear on my knees several days later. Once, my mom woke to the sound of me choking on my vomit. She rolled me over, cleaned me up. The next morning, she expressed her concern over my recent behavior. She told me that even though I was in pain now, one day I would be okay again and I had to remember that. She told me that when she felt her saddest, she’d think about how upset Tomm would be to see her so broken up. She pulled herself together for his sake. These did not feel like glib, stupid platitudes, finally.
“Please, please talk to me when you’re feeling down,” she said. “Talk to me when you’re feeling anything.”
We went to dinner, and I swear Tomm’s ghost was in the seat beside us. Tomm loved Pita Jungle. A falafel wrap was one of his favorite drunken indulgences, plus they had cheap wine and poured it with gusto. We paused our conversation when Tomm would have produced some funny comment, set our forks down and looked at the empty chair. I felt affronted, and I think my mom did too, that our server didn’t leave a wine glass out for Tomm. How could she not see him?
Not many people looked like Tomm. He was angular and androgynous with round eyes and full lips. He swayed when he walked, like a cat. When we did catch someone who resembled him even obliquely, we became obsessed. I rewatched the same episode of Schitt’s Creek over and over, the one where David and Patrick go on a hike and David is a big pill about being in nature and then Patrick asks David to marry him. How Tomm would’ve put his hands in front of his face just like David does, just so, if he were ever proposed to.
My mom found excuses to go to the post office to see the young trans woman who worked there and had the same protruding clavicles and slender arms as Tomm. Everyone was going to be getting a letter. She’d call me each time after she went, telling me every detail she learned about Sophie.
A realization began to unfurl itself: my mom and I were on the same team, united by our magical thinking. We were mother and daughter and we were grieving humans and we were two single women who were getting over painful breakups and we were roommates and we were friends and we were the only remaining members of our nuclear family unit and we were the closest people to Tomm Zorn, the only two who remembered the exact angle at which he threw his head back when he let out a cackle. Probably she would rub his old toothpaste scum into her skin, too. The losses we’d experienced together before did not make room for this one, as I had hoped. Tomm’s absence left a crater in us both. But I wondered if we could invite one another over to our respective craters, if we could plant zinnias and make couscous and refinish an old dining room table, spruce them up and then cut a trap door that led from mine to hers.
Once, high, I started to type how to grieve into Wikipedia, but when I got to how to gri–– the site suggested How to Grill Our Love, a Japanese manga series. There was no page for how to grieve. There was only grief. Under grief, there was a link for another page: grief (disambiguation). Disambiguation? The removal of ambiguity by making something clear.
I wanted to feel better but I didn’t want to forget Tomm. These desires felt complicated to hold in one palm. I began going to yoga, and at the end of class my instructor sometimes led us through a body scan meditation. I’d lie on my back with my feet splayed out to the sides like a corpse, and scan Tomm’s body instead of mine. His dark lashes, his thin neck. I always thought his hands could’ve been in a magazine advertisement. Narrow knuckles, never had a hangnail. I could still picture him, crystalline. My palms facing up toward the ceiling, I waited for a sign.
***
I hadn’t been to New York since Tomm’s memorial. The city lights looked just like tinsel as our plane approached the tarmac, permanently dressed for a celebration. The Uber ride to Chinatown––the neighborhood where my mom and I were staying, the neighborhood in which Tomm died––felt like gradually lowering myself into a Jacuzzi that was several degrees too hot. I had the urge to ask our driver to slow down, even though traffic had brought us to a crawl. I felt certain I’d been inside every building we passed, thousands of them. I needed to look inside.
The next morning I went on a walk on my own, to nowhere in particular. I found myself on a quiet street, all things considered. The honks from cars and music from open windows were still audible, but there was hardly anyone on the block. Mostly what I could hear was the faint echo of people chanting. I followed the sound until I found an inconspicuous temple––I nearly walked past it. The door was open, letting in the smell of garbage and cigarette smoke and letting out the sound of mellifluous voices. I felt hypnotized and stood very still by the door, out of sight. I inhaled the smell of cigarettes. Tomm had picked up the habit at thirteen and never stopped. His clothes always smelled slightly of smoke, but cigarettes clung to him in a different way than other people I knew who smoked. I thought they smelled stale and acrid, but he never did. The small hairs inside of my nostrils cleansed his scent of the harsh odor and turned it into an expensive perfume, like alchemy. Cigarettes didn’t remind me of death, they reminded me of life. I closed my eyes and listened to the chanting, and when I opened them, a black feather came into my peripheral vision, floating down in front of me so slowly it reminded me of a cartoon. It was fluffy––not a crow’s, not a pigeon’s. It looked like it came from the ostrich-feather-trimmed robe Tomm had bought as a swimsuit coverup several years earlier. I caught it in my open hand.
When I got back to our Airbnb, I sifted through tea bags that were arranged in a fan-like pattern on a gold tray and prepared cups for my mom and me. I sat on the windowsill and felt the heat from the mug spread like a glow across my palms. It felt like remembering something, like I hadn’t experienced the sensation of a temperature change in eighteen months. I watched as my tea bag floated in my cup, and I was reminded of drifting on a lazy river at a Scottsdale resort with Tomm when we were seventeen and nineteen. Every year since coming out in high school, his swim trunks had gotten shorter and shorter, exposing the Naired pearly white of his thighs. Floating beside him, I commented that I’d missed a stray pubic hair along my bikini line when I was shaving. He misinterpreted this to mean the pube was no longer connected to my body and therefore could, conceivably, fall off of me, swim the requisite few inches between our tubes, and jump onto him. He leapt from his floatie in a flash of flailing limbs, all elbows and knees, that created a glittering splash, interrupting fellow river-goers luxuriating peacefully by with their strawberry daiquiris in hand. He paddled to the edge and dramatically pulled his body out of the pool and onto the wavy beige pavement that was steaming from the sweltering heat, gasping for air like someone who had very nearly escaped drowning.
“It’s attached to me, you idiot!” I yelled through bouts of chortling, my inner-tube bouncing gently as my shoulders shook. I craned my neck to continue watching him as I floated away. He was laughing now as well, lying flat on his back, dark curls glistening with droplets of water, gazing with squinted eyes up at the cloudless sky.
I had the impulse to pat my hands up and down my torso and legs as if checking for knife wounds, seeing if this memory had caused anything to ooze. Instead, impossibly, I felt the feather in my pocket. It pressed into my thigh. I kept my fingers wrapped around my mug and turned my head to look at my mother, who had her eyes closed, sunlight bouncing off her face. “Can I share something with you?” I asked.
Maria Zorn’s work has been published in Longreads and West Branch.
POEMS
THE FABULOUS SZIGETIS by Ira Sadoff
The Fabulous Szigetis play the violin for a living. In every great city, on every boulevard that sidles up to great rivers, in cities with thriving markets of fruits and flowers, in tiny wine shops where obscure Dolcetto d’Albas are savored, you won’t find a single Szigeti. The Szigetis lock themselves in their hotel rooms to practice a Stravinsky melody, if you can call it a melody. You could say they are blessed with a calling, a mission. Oh yes, they are driven, as we sometimes wish we were driven. And their music is so metrical, uplifting, transcendent, it crowds out your dark thoughts, the crudest of your desires, your many shaggy disappointments.
Some might find an entire family playing violins exotic, ethereal, distressing. And we can imagine what disdain discarded Szigetis must suffer. The untalented Szigeti, the rebellious Szigeti, the disabled Szigeti, Szigetis who ring doorbells as Seventh-day Adventists. And the shame for any one of them if a wrong note is played, for then they must proceed as if their performance still had its halo around it.
They might remind a few of Josef Szigeti, the patriarch who fiddled through the last century. But these Szigetis have no ancestors, no attachments: they don’t come from Budapest, they never knew Bartok, they never coughed up blood in a Swiss sanitarium. No Nazis ever chased them to southern California. No, these Szigetis serve no god, savor no recollections: they are unscathed and unwearied.
Whereas we of the laundromat and stacks of paper work, we who open our hearts so foolishly and so often, who are surrounded by car horns, children shrieking, and a few pecking sparrows under the park bench, we who only dream of becoming Szigetis, wouldn’t we miss stumbling upon a blooming amaryllis in a neighbor’s window, attending the funeral of our beloved uncle Phil, falling in love with the wrong person?
Ira Sadoff is the author of the novel Uncoupling (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1982), many uncollected stories, and eight collections of poems, most recently Country Living (Alice James, 2020). His poems have appeared widely in magazines including The New Yorker, Poetry, Field, The Paris Review, Iowa Review, and American Poetry Review.
RIVER IS ANOTHER WORD FOR PRAYER by Triin Paja
a lynx’s underbelly grows ragged
crossing a field at dawn
when the flora is quarter dew
and wild strawberries grow
where a forest was cut,
as if the earth wants to comfort us.
light falls on hay bales.
I want to look at the light and not speak.
now a line of geese sails above,
known only by sound
for they are so far,
small like eyelashes taken from death.
the river is one field away.
I ask you, as from a beloved,
to come to the river, a place that does not need
to be protected from you,
for you are a beloved
and the river is another word for prayer.
I want us to look at the river and not speak.
now the cranes howl, widening the sky,
and the moon, a simple egg,
lowers into an empty stork nest.
there is no visible cup of life to drink from –
there are wings, wings.
Triin Paja is the author of three collections of poetry in Estonian and a chapbook in English, Sleeping in a Field (Wolfson Press, 2025). Her poems have appeared in The Cincinnati Review, Black Warrior Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Thrush, Rattle, and The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses.
PRIMORDIAL by Charlotte Pence
Your first memory is of water
colors. A failed painting.
The red couldn’t be stopped.
The yellow wanted
the blue. And the water
softened the paper into
a hole.
You learned early:
There is never a single cause
for why things go wrong.
Why wouldn’t you fear
the thunder, the night,
the ocean?
After all, a tiny mosquito
is deadlier than a great white.
There exists a jellyfish
that is also a box
and more painful than fangs.
The ways of ruin are everywhere.
When a breakage occurs – a dam
or levee – you notice
how the water,
once contained and named
into assured shapes onto maps,
becomes nameless, amorphous
as it grows. Becomes multiple
names of who it killed. How many.
You cannot paint this,
then or now, so you swirl the water
a hurricane brown. No pure color.
No single cause.
There is, though,
your first memory, fat
as the paintbrush, wanting to be
dipped into the pan of dried color,
ready for transfiguration.
Charlotte Pence is the author of two collections of poems from Black Lawrence Press, Many Small Fires (2015) and Code (2020), and two chapbooks. Her work has appeared in Epoch, Harvard Review, North American Review, Denver Quarterly, Rattle, Prairie Schooner, and Poetry.
LUNA by John Bargowski
In his room looking up
the names of bugs we’d collected
with our long-handled net
in the fields along Ravine Road,
my friend told me about a sister
he wasn’t allowed to talk about.
We’d caught a jar full that day,
all still alive, trying to climb
the glass sides, or flapping wings
against the hole-punched lid
for more air and light as we flipped
through his field guide.
She lived with a bunch of other kids
in a hospital on an island
they crossed a bridge to get to
on Sundays, he whispered, and once,
as they walked through the gate
back to their car he saw
something he’d never seen before
under a floodlight clinging
to the brick wall that surrounded
the grounds, a beauty he wanted
to bring home to show me,
with long pale wings
tinted the color of moonlight
and a fringe of gold powder
that rubbed off onto his palms
when he cupped his hands
and tried to capture it
before it flew away.
John Bargowski is the author of Driving West on the Pulaski Skyway (Bordighere, 2012) and American Chestnut (Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2022). His poems have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Southern Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry, Poetry, and Ploughshares.
THE ROUTINE by Michael Mark
I lift what’s left
of the bantam weight champ.
Air Corps, Korea, 1949. Once
from the kitchen linoleum, once
slumping off the couch next to me – once
eyes closed holding the bath towel bar
while the glaucoma drops sink in.
Champ, I call him, and he says,
Of what? and I say, Falling
and he says, Undefeated.
It’s a routine.
Sometimes, when I get him somewhat
steady, we dance. Make light
of his uncharted dips, sags, collapses –
his 96-pound body obeying
malicious gravity.
I am flying back home.
Tomorrow.
Early.
He knows
he can’t come. You wouldn’t want me to,
he said once, when I asked. I didn’t fight.
He can still spot a weak feint. I sweep
his floors, vacuum the carpet’s don’t-ask
where-those-came-from stains, dry
and stack the dishes, dust, leave.
They’ll just keep knocking me down
anyway, he’ll say out of nowhere, reliving
the bouts, each round, blow
after blow. The numbing. His heart
shouting, No! Stay on your feet!
somewhere between falling and dreaming.
Michael Mark is the author of the chapbook Visiting Her in Queens Is More Enlightening than a Month in a Monastery in Tibet (The Rattle Foundation, 2022). His poems have appeared in Copper Nickel, Pleiades, Ploughshares, The Sun, 32 Poems, and Verse Daily.
A THEORY OF PERSONAL IDENTITY by Owen McLeod
It’s been one year since my mother
was uploaded to the cloud. According
to John Locke, we’re not material bodies
or immaterial souls, but unified streams
of consciousness, which would also mean
I didn’t actually get a new phone last week
if my phone isn’t a physical object but a set
of photos, videos, texts, songs, and apps
that simply migrated to this new device –
sort of like Samsa in Kafka’s Metamorphosis.
If we preserve her data, maybe my mother
can migrate to a new device. My father
still charges her phone once a week. She
was attached to that phone, particularly
toward the end when she couldn’t garden,
needlepoint, do crossword puzzles, walk,
or speak – but she could text, more or less,
even if it was a just a handful of basic emojis.
Mostly smileys and hearts, but at some point
she shifted to praying hands only. We knew
what she was saying: I want to be uploaded.
Hospice came in, took care of all that,
and her body went out in a bag. My new
device takes amazing pics. I shot some
this morning while walking in the woods
and sent them to my mother’s phone.
She loved walking in the woods, especially
in the snow, so I used an app that adds
realistic-looking snowfall to pics. I’m not
a fool. I know the little hearts attached
to those pics are from my dad. I know
my mother is never coming back.
I just wish it had been real snow.
Owen McLeod is author of the poetry collections Dream Kitchen (University of North Texas Press, 2019) and Before After (Saturnalia, 2023). His poems have appeared in Field, Massachusetts Review, Mississippi Review, The Missouri Review, New England Review, Ploughshares, and The Yale Review.
DEPARTMENT STORE ESCALATOR by Jessica Greenbaum
After Szymborska’s “Puddle”
I remember that childhood fear well.
If I stepped on the down escalator
which bowed outward over thin air between floors
to a destination I couldn’t see at my height
and, sadly, would never reach
the moving teeth would casually drop me into space
as it had almost done each time before
while mannequins stood blank-faced in their checked raincoats
a clerk fussed with a clothes rack
gay shoppers passed me rising, looking upward, without a care
this time no different: the tug of my mother’s hand
again, the most shocking.
Jessica Greenbaum is the author of three poetry collections: Inventing Difficulty (Silverfish Review Press, 1998); The Two Yvonnes (Princeton University Press, 2012); and Spilled and Gone (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2019). Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, The Yale Review, Plume, The Paris Review, The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses, and The Best American Poetry.
CARDS by Farah Peterson
It’s all I can do to
keep my peace when
my son announces
he has a good hand I wince
when he lets cards
tip as, well
as carelessly as a child
unschooled
of course I look
I can’t help that
I’m just passing an evening
the way he asked and
don’t I win meekly, with none of that
slapping down hilarity
or even the quiet, cruel collection
with one knuckle snap and a half smile
none of the good old fun that
went with my learning to
keep cards close and
expect dissembling
but the result is, all I have for him
is a muzzled company
and all of the ghosts
they crowd me and crowd me
Farah Peterson’s poetry has appeared in The Florida Review, Rattle, and Salamander.
LEAP OF FAITH by Richard Spilman
The new age descends like an axe.
There has come a revolution:
rooted things have learned to run,
though the crackling of underbrush
betrays their flight and the blade
descends where the rustling ends.
And you, neither new nor old,
balance at cliff’s edge, future
awash in the whitecaps below.
What lies there may be scree
or rapids or just a soft breech into
the slipstream of the imminent,
but it’s an answer, a way not
so much out as into a now
whose chaos is yours by choice.
You could make your way back,
but to what? Ruin and rubble,
and the stale taste of fear.
Instead, you make a steeple
of your raised hands, tense
and leap. It’s death one way
or another, drowning or rising
to shake your hair and follow
the current wherever it goes.
Richard Spilman is the author of the poetry collection In the Night Speaking (Sacramento Poetry Center Press, 2009); two chapbooks, Suspension (New American Press, 2006) and Dig (Kelsay Books, 2023); and two story collections, Hot Fudge (Poseidon Press, 1990) and The Estate Sale (Texas Review Press, 2011).
ALLEGIANCE by Elizabeth Bradfield
Each morning before light, in
season, Billy’s F-150 fires
up, grumbles in his drive,
heads for the pier. I hear it
through the small window above
my bed, and when I’m out,
I watch for him – Billy at the Race,
Billy off the Peaked Hills, Billy steaming
home around the point. Billy. Thick
glasses, accent, hands, wizard
of fiberglass and steam box, torch
and epoxy, whose loft holds all
the tools, any clamp or nail you’d
need, any saw or grinder. Who
coaches us as we fix our skiff in his
garage and doesn’t laugh
in a mean way when we
fuck up. How’s my favorite
whale hugger? calls Billy
as I drive my Prius past his house.
We call him The Boat Fairy. To his face.
He and his wife call us The Girls. We
avoid politics beyond weather
and fish, which we get into
big time, elbows out windows,
idling. We want to make him
a T-shirt, a badge, a sticker
for his truck. We tell him so. Listen:
there are silences between us. We
all know what whispers there. It’s ok
to not speak them here.
Elizabeth Bradfield is the author of seven books, including Interpretive Work (Arktoi Books/Red Hen Press, 2008); Toward Antarctica (Boreal Books/Red Hen Press, 2019); and Cascadia Field Guide: Art, Ecology, Poetry (Mountaineers Books, 2023). She is a contributing editor to Alaska Quarterly Review.
HER SHAME by John Morgan
Mist rolls above the river like a second river
and the piles of snow darken as she drives
toward town and sees an old woman,
dressed in a light vest and no parka, slumped
on the metal railing where the road winds down.
Thinking that the woman might be lost,
maybe senile, she pulls over, opens
the window, and says, “Do you need help?”
But as the woman stands she sees instead
that it’s a man. Short, with shaggy hair
and a stubble beard, he comes to the window
and says, “I’m looking for a ride to town.”
In these rough times it’s her rule
never to pick up strangers, so she says,
“Oh, sorry, I’m not going there just now,”
and pulls away, confused at how
her good intentions went awry,
and at the bottom of the hill
shame overtakes her like a massive truck
looming in the rearview mirror as night comes on.
John Morgan is the author of a collection of essays and eight poetry collections, most recently The Hungers of the World: New and Later Collected Poems (Salmon Poetry, 2023). His work has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, The American Poetry Review, The Paris Review, and Kenyon Review.
NEAR ESTER, ALASKA by Jane Lott
Just under the sternum
there are so many words
for love I discovered
bitter-sweet
in the dictionary
resting on her knee
a solid sense of self
so many words for sea
so many words for bear.
But nowhere a word
for that time
when all that was left of daylight
lay pink and purple across the snow.
Jane Lott’s work has appeared in The Los Angeles Quarterly, Poetry Flash, Sonoma Magazine, and in the anthology Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace edited by Maxine Hong Kingston.
OBATA AT TENAYA PEAK by Ben Gucciardi
A whole year looking for the mountain
inside the mountain
before he tried to paint it.
And even then,
only when the light
off the granite
was tangible,
and with a brush made of mink
whiskers, the line
so fine it was hardly visible.
Ben Gucciardi is the author of West Portal (University of Utah Press, 2021). He is also the author of the chapbooks I Ask My Sister’s Ghost (DIAGRAM/New Michigan Press, 2020) and Timeless Tips for Simple Sabotage (Quarterly West, 2021). His poems have appeared in 32 Poems, AGNI, American Poetry Review, Harvard Review, and Poetry.
POTTED MAPLES by D.S. Waldman
The moon is a bone the shape of a hole.
She tries explaining this to you –
Boxes, on the ground, of her mother’s things,
a window open
in another part of the house.
Her legs are up the wall.
You are someone, then she sets her glass of water
on the floor,
and you are someone else – breath
let out the nose,
ghost pipe in the wall.
One is red with light bark, the other
a shade, entirely, of what you want to call maroon.
They take water on Sundays.
And in a month or two you’ll need
to put them in the ground.
D.S. Waldman’s poems have appeared in Los Angeles Review of Books, Kenyon Review, Poetry Society of America, Narrative, and Copper Nickel.
YELLOWJACKET TRAP ATTRACTANT by Robert Wrigley
You know a sliver of lamb bone with a bit of gristle’s
way better than the cloying sweet commercial stuff
dribbled on a cotton ball. After half a day
the transparent trap’s so full the bastards have to eat their own
to make room for themselves in the death chamber.
May San Francesco and Father Walt forgive you,
but you relish what looks like yellowjacket panic.
From the porch’s other end the engine hum of them dying.
You take a seat and watch them crawl in legions
through the six bottom holes none ever leaves by.
Nor bonhomie among them anywhere. Here’s one
crawling round and round the crowded cylinder,
hauling another’s head and fighting off
the fellows that would seize it. Meanwhile,
among the dead, tiny nuggets, desiccate gristles of lamb.
Upon your bare toes they light and commence
to chiseling away a divot of flesh, having it half
piranhaed off before you feel their sawtooth razory jaws.
Yes, they feed on certain destructive fruit moths
and flies, and they seem almost brilliantly rugged, as they must be.
But eventually you have to empty the traps and rebait,
and always a few have miraculously survived
among hundreds of cadavers – does that surprise you?
Such a fierce life force in carrion eaters. May it never end.
The morning’s dumped survivors, I crush beneath a boot.
Robert Wrigley is the author of twelve collections of poems, including Beautiful Country (Penguin, 2010); Anatomy of Melancholy & Other Poems (Penguin, 2013); The True Account of Myself as a Bird (Penguin, 2022); and a collection of essays, Nemerov’s Door (Tupelo Press, 2021).
ONE OF THE LAND MINE BANDS by John Willson
Ta Prohm Temple, Siem Reap, Cambodia
Named for its likeness to a crocodile’s head,
the zither’s hollow body rested
on two cut sections from a tree trunk.
The fingers of the player’s left hand
pressed ivory frets—
the crocodile’s teeth.
Fronting the band, a low blue table,
a brass bowl holding currency,
a tray with a sign, CD 10$:
at home, I listen to the sweet music,
hand cymbals, gongs, bamboo reeds,
the xylophone’s wood keys, struck brightly.
They performed beside the straight wide path
toward the temple where strangler vines
clutched blocks of stone,
pulled down ancient columns.
Below his knee, the crocodile player’s
left leg was plastic, hollow.
One of his bandmates sawed an upright
fiddle, its body a coconut shell.
He gripped the bow
in the fold between forearm and bicep.
All seven players missed limbs or their sight.
In this photo, blue shade cast by a tarp
suspends them between one chord
and the next,
like the moment each stepped
on something planted that bloomed.
John Willson is the author of the poetry collection Call This Room a Station (MoonPath Press, 2020). His poems have also appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Kyoto Journal, Northwest Review, Notre Dame Review, Sycamore Review, Cascadia Field Guide: Art, Ecology, Poetry, and Terrain.org.
SONG OF A STORYTELLER by Qag˙g˙un Chelsey Zibell
A man will journey the river
in a kayak, armed with magic akutuq1 mother made,
looking for uncle and answers, coming out
of strange happenings in order
for his human way of knowing to understand
that uncle’s bones are planted in the tundra.
He will be seduced by a woman with teeth gnashing between
her legs
and will not be consumed.
He will be pursued by a foolish man made of copper
and will set him afire.
He will catch a mermaid
and become an aŋatkuq2 ,
He will hear the bird speak
and become a prophet.
1 akutuq: [uh-koo-took] “a mixture of fat and berries,” Kobuk River Iñupiaq
2 aŋatkuq: [uh-ngut-kook] “shaman,” Kobuk River Iñupiaq
CANNED PEACHES by Qag˙g˙un Chelsey Zibell
Dad told you
Opa used to count out
his peas
one
by
one
just so he’d eat vegetables.
Once a year, the barge
came to town
and unloaded a year’s supply of goods.
Auntie said
“whether something was expired or not
before the next barge came, we had to buy it.”
Dehydrated potatoes
Flour
Hard candy
Eggs
Cans
and cans and
cans.
”Your dad doesn’t even
like the taste of frozen veggies now,”
Mom said.
Now you love the softness of pears in a can:
slightly grainy interior,
disintegrating in the mouth,
giving way with each bite.
Canned peaches, on the other hand,
have a slight bite,
a sharp taste of sunshine
coated in syrup.
They were in the small
compartment of your school lunch tray.
Saved for last,
while you made sure
to sit with others of the same gender.
You lost your taste for them
some time after that.
And switched back to pears.
“Song of a Storyteller” and “Canned Peaches” are Qag˙g˙un Chelsey Zibell’s debut poetry publications.
TOMATO DIVINATION by Doug Ramspeck
Like a thumb smudging across the wet ink of her mind,
the doctor said. And in the weeks after that,
a cardinal began battering with territorial insistence
at our kitchen window, leaving behind, sometimes,
small offerings of blood. That this was connected
to my mother seemed to me, at age seven, as clear
as the white robes of sky. I pictured what was happening
inside her as like the mute erasure of winter snow,
or I imagined that her voice was now the dead wisteria
at the yard’s edge with its poisonous seedpods, or like
the yellowjackets flying in and out of an open fissure
in the ground. And I remember my mother telling me
once before she lost herself that everything that stank
was holy: the goat droppings and goat urine in her garden,
the rake making prayerful scrapes amid manure.
And last night she returned to me out of the sky’s rain,
knocking on some unseen door inside a dream – knocking
like that cardinal pecking at our window – her voice like concentric
circles inside the yellow kitchen I’d forgotten. And in her palm
was a tomato still clinging to the nub of a vine. And reaching it
toward me, she said, These aren’t store bought . . . taste.
Doug Ramspeck is the author of two collections of short stories, a novella, and nine poetry collections, most recently Blur (The Word Works, 2023). His poems have appeared in The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, Kenyon Review, Slate, The Sun, and The Georgia Review.
LATE FRUIT by Daniel Halpern
I thought you were an anchor in the drift of the world;
but no: there isn’t an anchor anywhere.
— William Bronk
I should have foreseen
this defeat of the heart,
but I insisted
on believing that it would beat
forever, and never
cease bearing fruit.
I was a believer.
I thought there was a territory,
a lingua di terra of febrile soil
that survived the harvest,
whose fruit was sweet with a juice
whose color and scent were perennial.
I was a believer. I believed.
I grow older, I bear the weight,
I carry home the sack of that late harvest.
HER DREAM by Daniel Halpern
Susan’s, a found poem
I woke from a dream this morning
We were dating
We weren’t dancing
But there was rhythm
You asked me to live with you
You were so thoughtful
You made a place for me
Where you lived
A collection of my memories
Were placed on three shelves
They remained there
In a kind of permanence
We kissed
I had red lipstick on.
Daniel Halpern has written nine books of poetry and edited more than 15 books and anthologies. He founded the National Poetry Series, Antaeus, and the Ecco Press, now an imprint of HarperCollins.
AN OLD FEAR by James Davis May
The snake you saw that was at first just a thick strand
squiggling from the frayed kitchen rug is a problem
because it slid so soundlessly beneath the fridge
before your wife could see it and you both know
what concussions can do, even decades later,
that your brain can make you see what’s not there,
and feel what you shouldn’t, and that’s before
factoring in the illness that lives in it somewhere
like a queen wasp dormant all winter and the medication
that is supposed to save you from yourself
but can also make you act and think “unusually” –
so many chemicals go into the making of reality,
after all – and when you roll the fridge back
and find no snake but see instead the small hole
for the waterline that could have allowed the snake,
if there was a snake, a route to escape, you know
you’ve entered at least a month of ambient terror,
where every room will be a potential haunting
and you won’t know whether to sigh or gasp
when the drawer you open shimmers
with your face patterned over the quivering knives.
James Davis May is the author of two poetry collections, both published by Louisiana State University Press: Unquiet Things (2016) and Unusually Grand Ideas (2023). His poems and essays have appeared in 32 Poems, The Georgia Review, Literary Hub, New England Review, and The Sun.
ETHERIZE by Amber Flora Thomas
My mother says the wrong word.
The place that has held her tongue coasts,
relieves unthinkable territory: space and hollow
under the curds of night, invisible and endless.
She’ll take her old dog there when it’s time.
If we remember,
we know what she means: after the body,
in the cool stretch of stale air in a white room;
put out away from us, not even ash, but a sphere above the flame,
the mind when we step outside and look at the stars
so the dog can do her business, the ear training itself
to listen in the trees for what might be
another creature smelling us on the air,
but farther out.
So, I don’t correct her.
No needles or cremation estimates. Only the ethereal.
Temporary forces between us and floating off into space
when we walk out somewhere.
Farther still.
Amber Flora Thomas is the author of Eye of Water (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005); The Rabbits Could Sing (University of Alaska Press, 2012); and Red Channel in the Rupture (Red Hen Press, 2018). Her work has appeared in Georgia Review, Colorado Review, ZYZZYVA, Callaloo, Orion Magazine, Queer Nature: A Poetry Anthology, and Ecotone.
LUNKERS by David Starkey
On the big, once blank wall
of his room in assisted living,
I have mounted his largemouth bass.
The smallest weighed five pounds,
the largest was thirteen,
“Big Mama” he called her,
leaving the chartreuse spinnerbait
hooked in her taxidermied
lip. The centerpiece:
a twenty-pound steelhead
with bright orange paint
for the scar on its flank.
The only time he makes sense
these days is remembering
when and where and how
they were caught. He exaggerates
and changes details with the aplomb
of a politician, but that was ever
his way. Turn the conversation
to the recent past,
however, and his language
quickly falls apart,
like a plastic worm that’s been struck
too often, or a wooden lure
long snagged underwater
then discovered during a drought:
pinch its sides and . . . mush.
Soon, the nurses say, he’ll have to
downsize yet again – no room
in Memory Care for fiberglass fish.
On the day we wheel my father
into his final quarters,
the rest of him will be lost,
like the twenty-pound lunker
he claimed almost
to have netted before the line
snapped and, as he leaned over
the boat’s hull, it vanished
into his wavering reflection.
David Starkey is the author of eleven poetry collections, most recently Cutting It Loose (Pine Row Press, 2022). His poems have appeared in American Scholar, Georgia Review, Prairie Schooner, and Southern Review.
WHEN KNOWING IS THE SAME AS LATE WINTER WAITING by W.J. Herbert
Why is the body
still working, if it knows
what’s to come –
isn’t it cowed?
Sometimes, I think the blood
thinks,
the way these robins
must wonder whether the liquid
amber will leaf again
as they sit with their light-bulb
breasts glowing,
orange suns
among skeleton branches,
clots
in the deep-veined tree.
They flutter, as I imagine
my heart does,
just to see if it can feel
itself alive in the quiet
darkness of stiff ribs.
Regreening – that’s what the robins
want
but they can’t know what’s coming.
They wait,
as we do,
deaths tucked into a pocket of sky.
W.J. Herbert is the author of Dear Specimen: Poems (Beacon Press, 2021). Her poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Boulevard, The Georgia Review, The Hudson Review, The Southern Review, and The Best American Poetry.
GRACE by Robin Rosen Chang
The man plunged
into the muddy pond,
cradled the dog’s limp
but still warm body.
On land, he cupped his mouth
over the dog’s snout
and exhaled into it.
Over and over, a man
breathing into a dog,
his humid breath
like a zephyr,
its overblown promise
of a spring that won’t come.
And I think about my mother,
her emaciated body
in her pink nightgown
drowning in the ocean
of her bed, and how
I struggled to hold her hand.
I can’t imagine I’d have the grace
to swaddle another’s mouth
inside mine, offering life
to one whose wind was gone,
filling its lungs
with my trembling breath.
Robin Rosen Chang is the author of The Curator’s Notes (Terrapin Books, 2021). Her poems have appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Diode, The Journal, Cortland Review, American Literary Review, and Verse Daily.
ABECEDARIAN WITH ALS by Martha Silano
A little bit sane (a little bit not).
Blackbirds that turned out to be boat-tailed grackles.
Crows that cannot covert their fury of feathers.
Don’t say Relyvrio reminds you of hemlock.
Every wave reassuringly governed by the moon, but what about riptides?
F*ck a duck!
Glad there’s a joyful edge, though narrower than a Willet’s beak.
Hail in the forecast. A bitter taste:
it enables animals to avoid exposure to toxins.
Jaw stiffens, then relaxes. What will my body do next?
Kindness, we decide, is what we want to broadcast,
letting someone pull out in front of you in traffic,
make their turn, because the universe isn’t elegant,
no one’s really going anywhere important,
or running late to spin or vinyasa or
pilates. The neutral neutrons of the nucleus.
Quarks that are up, down, charm, strange, top, and bottom, though
rehab in the CD, a lunch date in Leschi, PT in Madrona – it happens.
Socrates died of centripetal paralysis, a prominent loss of sensation.
Terminal: I wish it was more like waiting out a storm with an $18.00 glass of
Pinot.
Unbound bound.
Very much looking forward to overcooked orzo and finely chopped squash.
What was that you assured me – when we die we wake from a dream?
X marks the rear of the theatre – one shove of poison – into a pure realm.
You know we’re all getting off at the same exit, right?
Zooey’s wish: to pray without ceasing.
Martha Silano is the author of six poetry collections, most recently Gravity Assist (Saturnalia Books, 2019) and This One We Call Ours (Lynx House Press, 2024). Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Paris Review, American Poetry Review, and The Missouri Review.
HORSEHAIR ON HELMETS by Maura Stanton
An old-fashioned wooden storm window
placed across sawhorses in a backyard –
nearby a paint can – but the little girl
crawling under this delightful play space
did not see glass panes, only blue sky
She stood up. She shrieked. I saw it all,
for I was high on the swing set next door,
moving through the air in big swoops
like a flag unfurling in a gust of wind.
Adults rushed from the house, running, shouting,
brushing glitter from the girl’s dark curls,
scolding her, bandaging her forehead,
while I kept swinging, swinging through the sky
An older brother got a rake and raked
sharp shimmery pieces from the grass,
the rake tines dragging out daggers of glass
that might have injured a bare foot, but flew
instead into my memory – for today
slits of sun between some fence rails
crisscrossing the snow like light swords
call up that scene – the broken window,
agitated figures, blood, then clean-up.
I held tight to the chains of the swing,
watching it all from a terrified distance
as if I were driving a team of wild horses
into battle, horsehair streaming from my helmet.
PENELOPE’S CHAIR by Maura Stanton
In Urgent Care the TV’s always turned
to HGTV, and today the House Flippers
chat about house staging as I wait here
with groaning patients, and fidgeting family,
my husband called to an exam room.
The topic’s house staging – the lovely room
flashing across the screen’s an illusion
created by designers. A tall young woman
points out a curved white sectional sofa,
and, she says, “here’s a Penelope chair.”
Penelope’s chair? But I’ve missed it.
The camera’s moved on to the staged bedroom.
What’s a chair? A seat with four legs
and a back for one person, like this chair,
where I’m sitting near other chairs in rows
filled with hunched seniors, or Moms or Dads
rocking children on their laps, jackets
wadded behind them like pillows as they text,
no one watching the cheerful TV folk
as they chatter about their California mansions.
I shift my legs, straighten my aching back,
recalling facts about Penelope’s chair
from The Odyssey. Ikmalios carved it all,
chair and footstool, from one piece of wood.
inlaid it with silver and ivory. At night
her hands aching from a day of weaving,
the suitors still noisily drinking her wine,
Penelope spread a thick fleece over the chair
and sat back. Like me, she was waiting
for her husband. And to pass the time,
on my iPad, I Google “Penelope’s Chair,”
expecting Wikipedia or quotes from Homer,
but instead, bewildering visions of chairs
scroll across the screen – Penelope Chairs! –
each one different, offering style or comfort,
Penelope dining chairs in synthetic leather,
stacking chairs framed in bright chrome tubes
or clear molded acrylic with steel legs.
Penelope’s armchair comes in fleur-de-lis
upholstery with claw-like feet, but there’s
a designer version shaped like a puzzle piece
with a bulbous protrusion for Penelope’s head.
Penelope’s beautiful chair’s ubiquitous –
If you don’t stand, walk, or lie down flat,
you’ve got to sit, so why not choose the best?
Get it in Lucite, satin, or soft grey plush?
And what about this swivel version,
or Penelope’s rattan lounger with matching footstool?
The woman next to me groans and rises
when her name’s called. She grabs her coat.
A sighing bearded man lowers himself
slowly into her place, pulls out his phone.
I roll my coat behind my back, my fleece,
thinking of Penelope on her special chair,
her eyes closed as she dreamed of Odysseus.
Those raucous nights her chair became her boat.
She’d float off through the foam-flecked seas
rowed by invisible gods until she reached
that place beyond the sunset where he lingered.
But every morning she woke up alone.
And then I hear a familiar cough and voice
coming from the desk. It’s my Odysseus
arriving back from that uncertain voyage
clutching his chart, and his new prescription,
grinning at me, ready to come home.
Maura Stanton is the author of a novel, three collections of stories, and seven collections of poems including Snow on Snow (Yale University Press, 1975); Cries of Swimmers (University of Utah Press, 1984); Glacier Wine (Carnegie-Mellon, 2001); Immortal Sofa (University of Illinois Press, 2008); and Interiors (Finishing Line Press, 2022). Her poems have appeared in Plume, Ploughshares, The Hudson Review, Poetry East, Gettysburg Review, Southern Poetry Review, and Able Muse.