Issue 211

Robert L. Giron
Jul 1
19 min read

This issue features

poetry by Sam Barbee,

photograph by Ken Barnett,

fiction by Robert Cataldo,

poetry by Alyssa Curcio,

photograph by Sergii Kolesnyk,

poetry by John Davis,

poetry by Deborah Doolittle,

poetry by Louise Kantro,

photograph by Ken Barnett,

poetry by Tara Menon,

poetry by Jake Rinloan,

poetry by Allen Strous, and

poetry by Jay Udall

Sam Barbee

TransGod Devotional

I am, was here. And you were, are here.

Both born beneath Near-heaven’s quilt of stars.

Re-Creation story: imperfect tissue vs. begotten.

Illusive truce: love-hate with deity;

Genesis-Genesis. Reapply with patriarch

with Gender-bent gospel.

Sup cool water from wine…

Carry on in your way; carry on, unmarred

by prophecy. First our souls evaded – untutored

against their verbs and nouns – scars

from he or she or they.

Ignore clumsy approvals and quaint hellos.

Now denature muscle and mirrors.

Reset the non-. Return, reboot, reborn…

Declare and endure thorns. Span horizon sand.

Temper The Ghost memory. Host misery.

Strive and stride in scarves or beanies;

bright crew cuts or braids. Blue-sky mascara.

Fresh Genesis.

Temper the body myth.

Bones are bones…

All blessings to you.

About the Author

Sam Barbee’s newest collection is titled, Apertures of Voluptuous Force (2022, Redhawk Publishing). He has three previous poetry collections, including That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), which was a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016, and Uncommon Book of Prayer (2021, Main Street Rag) which chronicles family travels in England. His poems have appeared recently in Poetry South, Literary Yard, Snapdragon, Asheville Poetry Review, and Adelaide Literary Magazine, among others; plus in online journals American Diversity Report, Verse Virtual, The Voices Project, and Medusa’s Kitchen. He served as President of the Winston-Salem Writers, and also NC Poetry Society, and is one of the originators of the Poetry In Plain Sights—now in its thirteenth year—a poetry initiative to feature NC poets on broadside posters and display them in NC towns statewide.

Ken Barnett

Foggy Morning

About the Artist

Ken Barnett is a retired social worker who took up photography late in life. Endlessly fascinated by nature in both small and large scale he tries to capture and share wonder with his camera. You can see more of his work at https://kenbarnettphotography.com.

Robert Cataldo

Gang of Four

I don’t want to leave my readers with the impression that Norm went entirely unattended, so I want to relate one story that took place, as I recall, years ago, at one of our doctors’ apartments in the South End, in which Norm had an important, if cameo, role.

It was a cold, miserable night in the dead of winter, that much I know, not freezing yet because a couple of inches of slush were piled up on the sidewalks and a fine drizzle was coming down. By the time we got there, our shoes were soaking wet, and we lined them up at the door.

The apartment was on the ground floor, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and even with all the lights on, it seemed a little dim. The brightest room was the living room where most of us, anyway, hung out. A couch and several armchairs were fully occupied, and even at first glance, it seemed most of the clinic was there. As the majority of the health center was gay or gay-friendly, any social gathering with my coworkers was always fun. Particularly tonight, in the depths of winter, holidays over, and nothing much to look forward to but another month of snow. Like young adults everywhere, it didn’t take much for us to be entertained.

Julia, in particular, several inches taller than everybody in the crowd, found something, at that moment uproarious, and her voice could be heard clear across the room. It was no surprise that she was talking with Matthew who had been leading her on, it seemed. He was dressed, once again, in his signature wrinkled white shirt and slacks. His hair was like a big aureole of curls. He was always bright and cheerful, gregarious, like an angel in a Fra Angelica print, and I would have been disappointed not to have seen him there.

I was not surprised to note that most of the medical wing had attended as well, huddled at the far side of the room. After all, we were there to bid farewell to one of their own: Bernie’s specialty, I am reminded, was to burn off anal warts, condyloma acuminata, to our dearly afflicted. On VD night, in particular, one could smell the odor (like ether and burning flesh) clear out into the waiting room where the newly tried and veterans alike were waiting their turn.

This evening, Dr. Levy, who had a degree in infectious disease, among other disciplines – suave, handsome, and unattached – honored his colleague with a few kind words. Dr. Levy was eminently eligible, a good listener, but, like all terribly successful individuals, just a tad out of reach. So, once again, he appears at a function, lonely and alone. The demands of his profession would only get worse over time. Love is a very jealous mistress, and abhors Work, Duty, and especially Fame. He, too, had bright sparkling eyes, dark shiny hair, and the most admirable concentration when he was framing his thoughts.

Working in a health center, with sex being a fundamental equalizer, we were all pretty much the same in doctors’ eyes. At thirty-two, happily committed, by then, I had little reason and few opportunities to wander into the medical wing, unless I was chasing down a patient’s chart. At which time, I noticed the impossibly narrow rooms, little wider than the exam tables, the drum-sized containers of Kwell (to kill particularly pesky pubic lice, pediculosis pubis, of which, previous to my boyfriend, I had had more than my share). On some other occasion, possibly with the center’s employee education in mind, I also had the opportunity to view, no bigger than a lemonade cooler, a large, round, metal canister of frozen sperm for lesbians considering fertilization by AI (artificial insemination), as they were barred elsewhere. The specimens inside were kept on dry ice, in separate compartments, and as the lid was unscrewed, we could see a trail of white smoke escaping. The first Back Bay Clinic children arrived a year or two later.

Like an emissary from this extraordinary world, DJ, the young, good-natured PA, circulated around the room, dropping in on conversations amongst the lowly and well-placed. He, like most of the gay medical wing, was playfully unattached.

I greeted Norm, my billing colleague, as soon as we walked in, who, shy, a little hesitant to put himself forward, was standing on the edge of the crowd. Outside of work, he looked relaxed, even cheerful, and if not for a certain reserve and introspection, I would say almost cute. He was very kind and gentle, and when he got to know you well, he’d let you know a thing or two, in the most discreet and offhand way.

Right towards the end of my “career” at the clinic, Norm mentioned some new scheme that management had enacted. We could only remove two or three patient records at a time, and we couldn’t bring them up from downstairs.

“Really?” I said, listening to him, just as I walked in. It was three o’clock on the dot, after a long walk, and the new dictum was already irritating me to consider.

He nodded. “They asked me to tell you. I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

Overhearing this was Olivia, our ad hoc file clerk, and worst culprit for misplaced charts. She, too, nodded, with her ponytail bobbing from side to side, and the most serious, inscrutable expression on her face.

I had barely unbuttoned my coat before I could see all the complications involved. Not being able to remove a chart meant I had to leaf through a record at the front desk – in all that hubbub – which may take me several minutes. Then I’d have to jot down the diagnosis, sometimes even the sub diagnoses for them to fit. It was more the nuisance of it that I objected to. I was just beginning to voice my displeasure:

“Of all the harebrained ideas,” I said. “I can’t imagine who came up with that. They could have at least asked us about it first. Maybe if we had a sign-out sheet…” I loved the job, but some things just didn’t make sense. I hadn’t quite had time to voice all my misgivings before I noticed Norm smile and then Olivia.

“We just wanted to see how long it would take,” he said, a big grin, still, on his face.

When pushed, I never knew when I was going to lose it until I did. How I thought things should be, pushed up against the way things were was a highly combustible mix. I was patient, it seemed, for just so long.

“You’re implying I blow my stack?” I asked.

Norm continued to smile, not agreeing one way or the other, but letting the truth of the matter sink in without another word said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know I did it so often. As a kid, I used to be so calm.”

Olivia, too, smiled, not saying a word, gratified, I suppose, to have a little something on her boss. We all went back to our jobs.

At the party, a few pleasantries aside, Norm retreated to his usual shy and observant self. Olivia, I was disappointed to observe, was either not invited or couldn’t attend; she lived in Cambridge, I think I heard, and would have needed public transportation to get here on her own. It was, in any case, a long and complicated trip. Francis and I were fortunate enough to take the subway a few stops and walk.

As Francis knew most of the attendees, introductions were not essential, but as usual, not particularly outgoing himself – unless he knew someone well – he stood by me like my very own Seeing Eye dog, which was fun, helpful even. What I missed, he was sure to recall.

We did have one insightful conversation with Matthew’s boyfriend, Danny. Whereas Matthew was confident and outgoing, playful, Daniel was thoughtful, reasonable. As he seemed to be happy on the edge of the crowd, it was a great opportunity to talk. I didn’t know him well – Francis knew him even less – and I’m afraid most of the conversation got lost. What I did find out, though, was most enlightening and inspiring.

They lived in South Boston, a tough, working-class area of Boston with a famously hostile relationship with the gay community: they denied walking permits to gay Irish contingents year after year in their St. Patrick’s Day Parade. It intrigued me how an out gay couple could survive there. Not too well from the sound of it.

“Matt wanted to live there,” Daniel said, not too happy about it. “’I’m Irish,’” he quoted Matthew as saying. “’I grew up there. I went to school there. Many of my friends live nearby. I love Southie. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. It’s not like I just moved in.’

“I never thought it was a good idea,” Daniel reiterated. “I’d have to walk to the subway. There are toughs everywhere. All you need is one incident – I’d be alone. Matthew can be very stubborn. I knew how much it meant to him, and we moved in.

“It was awful,” Daniel continued. “I had my windshield smashed the second week we were there. We’re very private. We don’t hold hands in public, not in that neighborhood,” he said with some heat. “But you know, two men living together, word must have gotten out. We started having rocks thrown through our windows. It was a miracle that neither of us got hurt. We didn’t catch the bastards, but, you know, it had to be someone who lived nearby. Matt still didn’t want to move. I couldn’t live with the stress. Finally, Matthew had had enough, and he knew he had to confront them. He wrote a letter to the neighbors, explaining just who we were: that he had grown up in Southie, graduated from South Boston High; he was Irish, to boot, and he was living there with the man he loved. He hand-delivered the letter to all the houses up and down the street; he shook their hands – whoever came to the door – and introduced himself. You know Matthew: He has a big heart. It took a lot of courage. Irish to the core. They had to confront their own prejudice, with this cute Irish kid standing right in front of them. I don’t think they could stay mad at him for long. Someone must have warned their kids to lay off, and we haven’t had any trouble since. The rocks stopped coming through our windows soon after. That’s pretty much all we were asking for.”

It was frightening, and a little horrific, and wonderful all the same. When Daniel finished, I looked over to Matthew – you couldn’t imagine him having the courage to do so – regaling Julia and a few others with his usual affection and bright wit. What courage we are capable of, I thought.

Months earlier, before all the trouble started, Matthew mentioned the little housewarming party they threw when they first moved in. One of their friends, from Roxbury, told them he didn’t feel safe enough to attend.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Not on your life. You think I’m nuts? How am I supposed to get there: on a sleigh and come down through a chimney?”

It was several long blocks, at least, from the subway stop.

Matthew is not one to take no for an answer and gave him money to take a cab. When the cab pulled up, several of them went down to meet him, put a bag over his head, literally, and hustled him up the stairs. The first “integrated” anything in Southie since the busing incidents in the mid-seventies. Somebody gave him a ride back on the return.

“It was such a great party,” Matthew said. “We just had to keep him away from the windows.”

It must have been close to one o’clock when we found ourselves on the sidewalk just outside. Not one of us wanted to go home. Daniel and Matthew were there, Julia, a male friend of hers, Francis and myself. A doctor or two, a few others were left inside. It had gotten much colder, and a few gentle snowflakes were idling down: beautiful and lazy, aimless, as we were saying our last farewells. We were all going in opposite directions: South Boston, Dorchester, or Mission Hill. It was just then that Matthew remembered his scarf.

“Oh, I forgot my scarf,” he said, as he was buttoning up. “Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

For some reason, a sheltered front entrance hadn’t been locked, and he walked back inside. It didn’t take him a minute to return.

“Oh my God, I guess I should have knocked!” he burst out, with his broad grin. “I don’t think they were expecting me.”

He didn’t go into it, but we all got the gist. He was still flushed as we were laughing about it. Apparently, while we were chatting at the party, the well-placed and the not too were working overtime, creating this little rendezvous as soon as we left. We won’t say what they did before or after, who did what with whom – or if they did it together. Not knowing, of course, led us only to conjecture more. In this little interregnum before AIDS, we can only hope that they were safe. Surprising, surreptitious, out of a process of elimination, I think I counted four. The four you would least expect. Delicious and funny; our interpretation of things would never be the same.

About the Author

Robert Cataldo is the author of four novels and a memoir. His prose and poetry have appeared in Bay Windows, Gradiva, International Journal of Italian Poetry, Backspace, and the Arlington Literary Journal, among others. A travel essay of his on visiting the Greek poet Constantine Cavafy's flat in Alexandria, Egypt was featured in Thoughtful Dog. His novel-excerpt "The Little Gods of Desire" was a runner-up in the Christopher Hewitt Awards, Arts & Understanding Magazine. Robert lives in Providence with his boyfriend/now husband of forty-seven years.

Alyssa Curcio

Self-portrait: a forgotten nereid

I am made in my father’s image—

that is to say,

I am made of anger.

If you look quite closely

you will see

that my bones and sinews are held together

with stitches of “no no no”

sewn over and over again.

My mouth is filled not with

teeth the color of a shell’s belly,

but with knives glinting

the shade of the pucks in the moon.

Honed to a point over

a thousand, thousand years

watching ships pass me by,

hearing my name on the

stuttering tongues of men.

What a beauty,

my sisters say.

They twirl the salt-spun locks

of my hair

around their fine fingers.

They know not of the

temperature of my blood.

They cannot see how black rage

warps my cheek, my left eye, the bones of my neck.

Nor do their gazes catch

the wisps of smoke

that curl around my head as I speak,

even as I say these words

to you now.

How the prophets sing the tales

of virile sons,

all spines and

spit and

seeking out blood.

But they know nothing

of the daughters

Made in their fathers’ image.

About the Author

Alyssa Curcio is a reproductive justice activist and lawyer whose advocacy has been covered by The New York Times, The New Yorker, and NBC News. Her poetry has been featured in Writers Resist, Screen Door Review and Poem Alone. A Virginia native, she currently lives in New York City.

Sergii Kolesnyk

Lightning Over Sea

John Davis

The Four Women of the Wind

Sirocco

She is a Mediterranean hippie chick with gray hair

and crevices deep in her skin. When her parakeet

repeats get a groove on, she dips her finger

in turmeric. The taste reminds her of tap dances

her mother insisted she practice. Her memory

scatters like a lost shoe looking for a foot.

Chinook

Her moist, downslope voice resembles the hum

in a gong. She lures a man at a gallery opening.

In his mind he finesses the flow of her skin,

the thrum of her tongue. She slides her hand

in the crook of his arm, and like a fingersmith,

removes his wallet and keys.

Mistral

The mistress of cool rhythm, she rolls endless

rolls on an aikido mat. Her gi fits like a whitecap

as she splashes across the dojo, ushers in the tide,

draws back and flings, again and again. An invisible

sand rubs against her, but she does not stop

because the water has warmed her hands.

Monsoon

She is as gray as a whale, thunders the Indian Ocean

where there is no ocean, bullies the calm until

there is no calm. She harasses a shy man, runs

her thumbs under his shirt. At night she offers penance

for her sins, confesses to loneliness. She imitates

a mourning dove, swallows the smooth in its coo.

About the Author

John Davis is the author of Gigs, Guard the Dead and The Reservist. His work has appeared in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review and Terrain.org. He lives on an island in the Salish Sea and performs in several bands.

Deborah H. Doolittle

For Antoine de Saint-Exupery, It Was Always a Single, Solitary Rose

Not crimson red or carnation

pink, but something caught in between

those two hues. Rose-colored like those

spectacles plucked from his pocket

at odd times of the day or night

to look at the world with renewed

delight. Tight bud of promises

yet to be fulfilled, as petal

after petal, the blossom would

unfurl in a swirl of green leaves

and thorny stems from its long-necked

vase like a genie uncorked from its

crystal bottle. Rose of wishful

thinking, rose of soft whiskery

conversations, rose of his not

unquiet disposition, left

to blossom into perfection.

About the Author

Deborah H. Doolittle has lived in lots of different places but now calls North Carolina home. An AWP Intro Award winner and Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda and three chapbooks, No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound. When not writing or reading or editing BRILLIG: a micro lit mag, she is training for running road races, or practicing yoga, all while sharing a house with her husband, six housecats, and a backyard full of birds.

Louise Kantro

Passing

In 1930: Black but with light skin

Meant family might suggest it’s best you move

Even if it separated you from kin

If passing meant that life for you’d improve.

In 1950: If you wanted kids

Promotions, wife, an active social life

You learned to live your real life off the grid

Have secret same-sex “friends,” avoiding strife.

In 1990: Secrets stole your voice.

You tried to seem just like your many friends

But Daddy made it clear you had no choice

For who’d believe you? Better to pretend.

To live what’s false as truth exacts a cost

And shame won’t ease the pain or all that’s lost.

A Toast

Here’s to the scraps,

the throwaway two-year-olds

who live with drugged-out parents

on the street or, sometimes

if they’re lucky, hotel rooms –

Here’s to the scraps,

the kids whose mother’s

boyfriends make them

pay a price for being

extra mouths to feed –

Here’s to the scraps,

children whose parents are too

busy to connect or who have

half-siblings they’ve never met

who could have been allies –

Here’s to the scraps

sixteen-year-olds get into,

the tantrums, withdrawals, clashes,

that erupt from them in reaction

to all that is unpredictable –

May they find one person to trust

then another and another

who can value each fragment,

each bit, each wisp, each crumb

of their exquisite, yearning souls.

About the Author

Louise Kantro, retired teacher, bridge player, and cat-lover, volunteers as a CASA (advocate for foster children). She has published poetry and prose in such journals as the new renaissance, SLAB, The Chariton Review, South Loop Review, Caesura, Cloudbank, and Monterey Poetry Review. Her latest project is a chapbook about political and social issues, to which she keeps adding poems in response to the daily whirlwind of news.

Ken Barnett

Mojave Desert Trail 2

About the Artist

Ken Barnett is a retired social worker who took up photography late in life. Endlessly fascinated by nature in both small and large scale he tries to capture and share wonder with his camera. You can see more of his work at https://kenbarnettphotography.com.

Tara Menon

Extant Masterpieces?

Renaissance painters depicted women with tumors,

but what about ladies suffering from hematomas

with their appalling streaking shades?

Perhaps there are such masterpieces I’m unaware of,

but if my eyes alight on them, I’ll know instantly

what the artist was depicting and study the faces of the women

to see what they were undergoing or to discern how horrified the maids were.

Perhaps the women were strong and were up to the challenges of their bodies

while they went about their task of bathing or undressing as if they had

all the time in the world.

They were ignorant that behind the veil of clouds,

the goddesses were urging them to turn

their suffering into a spiritual experience, an ecstasy of yearning

for the glory that comes after, the light that never stops glowing.

Making the Bed

Less than a month after my lumpectomy,

as soon as I wake up,

I hurry downstairs to my mother’s bedroom,

where honeycomb-style blinds cover the windows.

Her palms rest over her eyes and I wonder if she is dizzy

like she was yesterday.

My nonagenarian mother was praying

she would have the strength to get up.

She was able to make her queen bed,

something I can’t do yet, while I’m healing.

I pile on various decorative cushions –

satiny, tasseled, mirror-embedded, embroidered.

Her bed looks magnificent as it has all these years

and before, when she had a staff to do her bidding.

Perfection has given way in dressing though,

with her thinning silky hair perpetually slipping out of a bun.

She leaves trails of hairpins.

Her saris are hiked up for safety.

The pleats are not always elegantly folded

to allow a cascading waterfall to drop to the ground.

She refuses to wear a convenient housecoat unlike her cousins

who are giving in to old age.

She hopes the day she needs one will never dawn.

About the Author

Tara Menon is an Indian-American writer based in Lexington, Massachusetts. Menon was a finalist for the Willow Run Poetry Book Award 2023/2024. Her latest poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Blue Heron Review, The Queens Review, Adanna Literary Journal, Sheila-Na-Gig, The Tipton Poetry Review, and ArLiJo. She is also a fiction writer whose latest stories have appeared in Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Hong Kong Review, and Armstrong Literary.

Jake Rinloan

Desert Transplants

Deep down, we all know how lucky we are

Whether it’s Lars in Tucson

Bjorn in Yuma

Annika in Palm Springs

Or me, sauntering through wildflowers

Near Joshua Tree National Park

If our ancestors migrated here recently

Or six generations ago

It is not lost on us

How our forebearers spent countless centuries

Enduring freezing cold

In dark, northern latitudes

Making us genetically programmed

To search for heat and light

And finally, we’ve arrived!

In the American Southwest

For us (and throngs of Canadians)

This is the promised land

Warm, dry and sun-drenched

A place where we become even more Nordic

As sunlight bleaches brown hair to blond

We prefer grapefruit, burritos, and dates

Over lutefisk and lefse

Amazing how our Spanish is ten times better

Than our Swedish and Danish

Here, where hummingbirds buzz by

And citrus blossoms perfume the air

In the middle of winter!

Emily Dickinson wrote of Yellower Climes

To describe our Shangri-La

To be sure, this isn’t paradise

There are scorpions, sandstorms

And the threat of skin cancer

Not to mention

The extreme difficulty I face

In upholding my Scandinavian heritage

By having to remain constantly stoic

While the warm desert breeze tickles

My blond beard

I struggle right now

Not to break into a wide, toothy grin

About the Author

Jake Rinloan, a native Californian, has lived much of his life in Washington State, with stints in Finland and Canada. He is a University of Washington graduate who is passionate about reading, writing and outdoor recreation. Most recently, he worked as a project director for the California chapter of The Nature Conservancy. His work has been published by The Summerset Review, Wales Haiku Journal, Steam Ticket Review, Unleash Lit, and elsewhere, including baseball articles for the Society for American Baseball Research (SABR). Visit:

https://jakerinloan.com.

Allen Strous

Another

Two rooms,

one

and

an other

and passing between them

secret passage secret rooms

as if in the fold of a curtain,

in the shadow there

more shadow, shadows all vague

what this would be, how this would fit

runs on the fast jet slow in the sky, the slow of it that real

while, from one room into

those photographs,

points of view, from each window, each angle,

each point seeing from each point,

contained, complete,

this many

each other

--seeing each, for a moment, other

About the Author

Allen Strous is the author of Tired (The Backwaters Press). His poetry chapbook Of This Ground is part of the four-author collection The Fifth Voice (Toadlily Press). His poems have appeared most recently in Trajectory, Blue Unicorn, and Freshwater.

Jay Udall

Room

I like this room, how it’s held me all these years,

these four walls, two windows waiting when I leave

to work or walk or visit others or journey through

sleep’s uncanny lands, waiting to take me in

again at our agreed-upon place in time-space where

I join today to yesterday and tomorrow, a string of beads

in changing colors I call my life. So I almost forget

a day will come when I won’t return. I almost forget

not everyone everywhere has such a room, and some

even now are crossing continents and oceans, bringing

in their arms, on their backs what they can from rooms

they left, escaping, traveling toward rooms they can’t

yet see. At the threshold, we say There is no room here,

go back where you came from, while burning air seeps

through our windows, walls, ceilings, floors, all our

rooms walking with the house, ocean edging closer.

About the Author

Jay Udall’s latest book of poetry is Reach Beyond Reach (2022 Comstock Review Chapbook Award). Previous volumes include Because a Fire in Our Heads (X.J. Kennedy Poetry Prize) and The Welcome Table (New Mexico Book Award). He teaches at Northern Virginia Community College.