46 47

Cha-chick, I hear, metallic,

And I look up as if to pose

A brow-knit question to Adam,

The nearest sinner in sight.

He shrugs, eyes averted,

Painted flat on rigid canvas.

Cha-chick, again. I frown,

Scratching pencil stopped on page,

Accusing eye on Eve, but she points,

Long white finger extended to

The yellow-black enchanter

Retreating back from where it came.

By Jessica Warren

protecting abrahamBy Jessica Warren

prayer

By Kristen M. Powell

The Rebuke

Cha-chick, it sounds, I shudder,

Winking to God, eternal vexer,

But his cherubs waver, and

I retract, look aft to find

The blinds clicking and Eden

Pressed against the glass.

52 53

My tour book cannot wait.

The land crawls over the corner

Of the cover, spreading thick

Through the pale blue water

Like black bread mold on a loaf.

“Indian Ocean,” it says,

“Caspian Sea.” And I can

See, too, the international

Datelines cutting apart states

And time with slicing concern,

Like continental drift.

“Gondwanna,” it utters,

“Avalonia, Atlantis,”

“Byzantium.” So I say,

“Alright,” and we book a flight.

By Kristen M. Powell

Tectonic Advantage

By Kenton BartlettBy Jessica Bautista

NomadsWigwam Motel

Uncle Edby Kristen M. Powell

“She spilled a martini on my shoesOn purpose. I knew because Doreen

Never spilled. I watched her everyFriday for a year,” Uncle Ed let

A whole glass and its single green oliveSlide down his throat.

That night, he choked on the olive On purpose. I knew because Uncle Ed

Never choked. He’s been my uncleFor fourteen years. He waited for

My mother to slide her arms around himTo cough it up: he was lonely.

The Octopodes’ Love Songby Kristen M. Powell

First Heart: Statocystic Flirting

Remove a slippery limb;Wiggle it across the sea.Your gaze is autonomic;But try to level it at me.

Second Heart: Chemoreceptors

Brackish black makes me blind, deaf,Dumb; I can’t smell; I blush blue,

Yellow, spit captious venom.Stubborn arms taste ardor new.

Third Heart: Without Stereognosis

You jet quick from our mantleAnd I string my hope across

Our crumbling ceiling.I let my arms grasp at loss.

When you taught meat eleven to rollsushi, standing patientlybeside meas I flattened the bambooon the wood table,my own fingers dippinginto the water while you heldthe brittle seaweedout to me,I kept waitingfor the tearof the seaweed as Ipatted the rice down.

MARIA BRAECKELWhile you shiftedyour attention, more trustfulwith distance,chopping, chopping,for our guests, eyeingfor freshness,the rice toppledover my fingers,reminding me of snowavalanching.

Growing warm in the late spring sunshine,Dew-wet ashen wool clings to their hides.Greasy and thick, freckled with steadfast briars,Their coats will be taken for others’ coats:Shorn from their bodies, then carded and dyed.Soon the homespun will be knit by old hands, Rheumy and gnarled with age and work.The dry nectarine yarn will be pulled taut Between the needles as they grow heavy.The feat given to a favoriteGrandchild who instead of thanks will stammer,Faced with a gift she doesn’t like and can’t swap.Later forced to wear the itchy fiberTo an over-warm family gathering.The sheep that cultivated the dense woolRemembered only as a chafing whisper.

FOLDKRISTEN M. POWELL

AFTER LINDA PASTAN[TO A DAUGHTER LEAVING HOME]

17

LAURA WARMAN

remember when I wrote you loveletters every one and five-sixth days, unable to bend my limbsinto angles or floss the sideof number seven untilI sloppily scrawled adoration of youand the promise of tomorrowson blue lines -

immediately rewriting it with deep breaths of patience,as if the clarity of the z proved how confident I wasin my love for you?

[REMEMBER WHEN I WROTE YOU LOVE]MARIA BRAECKEL

Tearing open the wet newspaper,I try to recall the time whenFirst I had neatly packed the box.Its now soggy hull crumbles;Its flaps tremble with a charge of wind.I pull the first of its cargo,Running with newsprint, onto my lap.It is cool and soft, almost pleasantOn this close-aired day; I amReluctant to ruin the feel By discovering what was lost.

As a child, I was known to collectTwo of every useless, little,Lovable thing, later packingBoxes full, to be opened onlyWhen I never needed them, Instead in want of a carton.

(But this sopping bundle has no twin.)

I gently peel back its dank shroudDiscovering the damp faceOf an old forgotten friend.She, carefully sewn, is the onePassenger saved from this shipwreck.A gift from a long-gone auntWhose meticulous work was lovedLong after her face became faint.The doll rests in the July sun,And I admire, zoo-like, The last of a dying breed.

FLOODKRISTEN M. POWELL

25