Issue 212

Robert L. Giron
Aug 1
11 min read

This issue features

photography by Ken Barnett,
poetry by Robert Beveridge,
poetry by R.T. Castleberry,
art by Catherine Chan,
fiction by Tom Dilworth,
poetry by William Doreski,
photograph by Ken Barnett,
poetry by James Fowler, and
poetry by John Grey

Ken Burnet

Bald Eagle

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 Beveridge

One Nation Indivisible

I see everything through a clear shield,

a fog of lost focus, from the houses

nestled between the mangrove trees

to the half-dog men who snatch babies

from their strollers to sell to the termite

syndicate (or so talk radio tells us).

Encouraged to do our own research,

it takes us a maximum of five minutes

to have turned our attentions

to the pardoning of the founder of Silk Road,

the effects of baking powder on the Ryder Cup,

how many ocelots can dance on the head

of a pin, not to mention the various dimensions

of length of steel to which one can apply

the term “pin.” We grab our phones, eager

to broadcast the results of our Google U.

courses to the world, are placed on infinite hold.

About the Author

Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it's been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in Ohio Bards, Plexus: The Literary Review of the Alpert Medical School, and Voices Unbound, among others.

R.T. Castleberry

In The Way of Regrets

A ceiling fan rustles this writing page

while I type my conditional response to

a cursory list of denials and demands.

Praying for a signal in the moonlight

I hear the owl’s call, the wolf’s,

the snap of a night hunter’s rifle.

My wife sits at a table along the Costa Brava,

betting backgammon with the Barcelona crowd.

Her gowns and slippers shimmer like ocean jewels.

Suffering serves the Southern motherland.

The winter market discloses ram’s horns and revolvers

as a blood moon threatens in a week.

About the Author

R.T. Castleberry, a Pushcart Prize nominee, has work in Sangam, Glassworks, Gyroscope Review, Silk Road, and StepAway. Internationally, he's had poetry published in Canada, Wales, Ireland, Scotland, France, New Zealand, Portugal, the Philippines, India, and Antarctica. His poetry has appeared in the anthologies: You Can Hear the Ocean: An Anthology of Classic and Current Poetry, TimeSlice, The Weight of Addition, and Level Land: Poetry For and About the I35 Corridor.

Catherine Chan

blooming with hope

About the Artist

Catherine Chan's journey began in the bustling city of Hong Kong, China, before her family made a heartfelt move to Pennsylvania in search of better opportunities. Family has always been at the center of Catherine's life; she selflessly dedicated herself to caring for her parents and nurturing her two children. As her children grew and carved out their own independent paths, Catherine found herself yearning for a new passion.

It was during a moment of quiet reflection, while rummaging through her basement, that she stumbled upon an old box of colored pencils, once cherished by her daughter during her early school days. This unexpected find ignited a spark within her, inspiring her to delve into the world of drawing. With a gentle curiosity, she began to channel her emotions and experiences into vibrant, intricate illustrations, drawing inspiration from the beauty of nature that surrounded her during her morning walks. Each piece she created was not just art but a testament to her love for her family and the world around her.

Tom Dilworth

Holding Her Clothes

Prismatic lines snaked across the insides of my eyelids, forming no particular pattern. Their movement and color transfixed me. Each stripe faded slowly, leaving a hazy residue, making room for others to begin. I don’t know how long they persisted. I awoke in my bed, fully clothed, unsure of the time, the remnants of a deep sleep buzzing in my ears. A soft band of daylight spilled between the cellular shade and wooden windowsill. This light was instructive. December held our shortest days of the year. I heard the kids shouting downstairs, not fighting, but not getting along either.

I willed myself out of bed. It’d been almost a year since my wife died. The kids approached me differently than her, only coming to me when they really needed something, usually trying to solve problems themselves. They used to interrupt the naps my wife and I took, often joining us in bed. Now it was rare that they came to me while I slept. I missed their interruptions. I missed my children needing me. They grew up quickly after my wife died. Sara was almost eleven, Ethan eight, and Claire six. Some days, they all felt much older. In many ways, they moved on faster than I did.

***

That afternoon, I had the same dream where I open the closet door in our laundry room to find a new area of our home. An unfinished basement room full of memories from a future life, memories of her and me and the kids growing old together. There are dusty boxes of photos, plastic bins of clothes and sports uniforms - bigger sizes, things the kids haven’t worn yet, and holiday decorations, not the ones I’d been unwilling to put up since she died, but new ones, ones she must’ve bought in this alien life of ours.

Our living room loveseat sits in that room, next to an unfamiliar coffee table and some mid-century end tables I’ve never seen before. I recall how we bought it with our first home; a splurge we paid off in installments, and said we’d never get rid of it, hoping one of the kids would take it.

In my dream, I tend to linger with one photo of us, our hair grey, our faces wrinkled, the kids older, presumably married, unknown partners by their side, an infant in my daughter’s arms and another, a toddler, in my son’s lap. The baby girl has blue eyes like my wife, that twinkle before the camera. My wife’s face shows complete joy in that photo, and I can stare at it until I wake up. Rarely do I look at anything else.

Sometimes, I walk back through the doorway, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of her and this otherworldly life of ours. But, when I leave that room, I always wake up. So, I stay. I stay as long as I can.

***

I had this same dream almost every time I slept. I sensed my children knew my dreams were important to me, and that was why they didn’t interrupt. I talked with them about dreams. Not mine, specifically, but the idea of dreams, and what they might mean. They seemed to enjoy this.

***

After my wife died, I fought to hold onto her by holding her clothes. I often lay down on the loveseat in our living room, next to a familiar coffee table, holding a faded red and black flannel shirt my wife wore, a thick material, the kind that never smells dirty. Each time I do, I’m enveloped in her scent - a vivid mix of her lotion, perfume, and shampoo. I lay there, holding her flannel shirt to my nose, thinking of her.

***

The kids’ voices were getting louder. They sounded more than three. I considered my wife’s glasses on the nightstand, asking myself how long I’d allow her things to remain in my life. Recently, my older daughter, Sara, asked me what I planned to do with my wife’s things. In our conversation, I dismissed the idea of putting her things away. But, now, looking at her prescription glasses, glasses no one would wear again, I decided to box up her things. I made the decision quickly and felt empowered. My kids asked if they could help, but I told them I preferred to work alone. Them knowing I committed to the task, me saying it out loud, was motivating. I made frozen pizza and let them watch a movie. When I finished later that night and shelved the boxes in the basement, I felt accomplished, ready to enter a new phase of my life. I fell into a dreamless sleep and woke up refreshed.

***

A few weeks later, I attended a work dinner. I was hopeful I’d strike up an engaging conversation, maybe meet some new people, and I looked forward to the evening out. After drinks at the bar, where I stood mostly silently, we were seated around a large, rectangular table with tea candles and oversized flatware. I realized everyone there had a partner but me and I regretted my decision to come. The dim lighting, noise and wine created a dark, heavy fog around me, punctuated with waitstaff coming and going. I felt anxious and uncomfortable the entire meal. I couldn’t wait to leave, even excusing myself to regain my composure in a bathroom stall. The conversations were unbearable. No one could figure out how to speak with me and I didn’t know what to say to them. Either they knew about my wife and avoided it, or they didn’t know and asked about her. My wedding ring didn’t help.

***

When I got home, the kids were asleep. I paid the sitter and went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept looking at my wife’s side of the bed. I could see her groove in the mattress. It was faint, but it was there. Unable to sleep, I went to the basement and wrestled a large box off a shelf, pulling out her black and red flannel, leaving other clothes scattered on the floor. If I inhaled deeply enough, I could smell her. I fell asleep with her shirt.

My younger daughter, Claire, woke me up. She’d had a nightmare, she said, but looked sleepy. I relished her needing me and felt like letting her sleep next to me, but I heard my wife’s voice, saying the kids needed to sleep in their own beds. She was a stickler about that. I carried my daughter to her room, lying down on her floor after I tucked her in. I had trouble getting comfortable but didn’t mind. Our togetherness was comforting, and eventually, she fell asleep. I heel-toed back to my room and considered the flannel shirt. I draped it over the chair by the window and went to bed, falling asleep quickly.

In my dream, I see a portrait of my wife. An oil painting of her face in profile, set in a filigreed brass frame. Her portrait melts slowly, like a candle, and I watch small drops of her drip down and puddle on the lip of the frame.

THE END

About the Author

Tom Dilworth studied Spanish Language and Culture at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and holds a PharmD from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. He works as a pharmacist and writes short fiction in the margins of the day. He’s published over fifty peer-reviewed scientific manuscripts and book chapters and has been writing fiction which focuses on the challenges and triumphs of human connection. His work recently appeared in The Ravens Perch.

William Doreski

Buildings Aren’t Paragraphs

All the new buildings are square

and devoid of style. Out-of-work

architects regret expensive

educations and cry to the clouds

for redress that will never come.

Buildings aren’t exactly paragraphs.

Their ebb and flow don’t require

rhythm or a syntax larger

than one stone, one joist, one shingle.

Only hammers, mortar, arc welds

bright enough to blind the public

to a ghastly but routine crime.

Square buildings with square rooms

need only a level and T-square

to keep them honest with gravity.

The room, the smallest unit

of utility, must contain

nothing as offensive as décor.

The structure mustn’t lean east

or west but must shoulder up

to the simple task of containment.

The structure may shudder in storms

but can’t leak without a permit.

The architects gather downtown

to express a collective angst.

But the square new buildings open

their doors and officials rush out

to stifle the protest with gestures

in abstract shapes the architects

mistake for a new manifesto.

About the Author

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.

Ken Barnett

Mojave Desert Trail 1

About the Author

James Fowler

Footnotes

It’s where we find curious asides,

like items in a wonder cabinet

attached to some practical place,

an apothecary or tobacco shop.

Here the world’s peripherals get

their moment, the billing smaller,

subordinate to the main event,

but capable of outsized appeal,

from Schumann’s A-note hell

to Abraxas of the 365^th heaven,

between which Darwin’s 53,767

worms per acre.

Hardly earth shattering, but

consider the Earl of Essex finding

in a footnote to Tacitus the practice

of decimation, a killing tithe,

and executing every tenth coward

who fled the upstart Irish,

turning English flesh to Celtic sod.

The most that most can hope

is footnote status, the grand narrative

rolling too like a juggernaut to

mind the rubble under its wheels.

Still, in the bottom matter, the odd,

incidental stuff may lurk glimmers of

interest we mark as peculiarly human.

About the Author

James Fowler has published two poetry volumes—The Pain Trader (Golden Antelope Press, 2020), Postcards from Home (Kelsay Books, 2024)—and a collection of short stories, Field Trip (Cornerpost Press, 2022). His poems have appeared in such publications as The Poetry of Capital, Sangam Literary Magazine, Transference, Aji Magazine, Delta Poetry Review, Glimpse, DASH, and Cave Region Review.

John Grey

Miss Right, The Wrong Woman

a mistake or at least, the first step toward one,

anyway, you’re a flying fish and it’s up to me

to grab you, you’re a snake and I must keep

your fangs clear of my bare flesh, you’re a blur

and my mission, should I accept it, is to twist

the lens until you come clear, you’re fire and

if I can stick my hand in your flame for a minute

or two then I have both squatter’s rights and a

terrible burn, you’re a goddess and I’m dressed

for worship, you’re the Washington monument

and I’m a tourist, you’re a lime rickey and it’s

been so long since I had one, you’re a cigarette

and you cause cancer but did I ever tell you how

much I adore malignant cells, you’re Taylor Swift

and I’m trying to snap up a ticket on one of these

on-line sites, you’re New York City and I get

lost in the Big Apple once I stray from the grid,

you’re candy and I long to suck on your sweetness

even if my teeth won’t thank you, you’re advice

that I have no interest in taking, you’re a fire

escape but I can’t tell whether you go up or down,

sure, a mistake, poetic selfies often are,

I’m calculating Pi from somewhere inside

a rectangle and the answer is your phone number –

ding a ling a ling

About the Author

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and Tenth Muse. Latest books, Subject Matters, Between Two Fires and Covert. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.