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sparkle + blink 69
2015 Quiet Lightning
artwork Doug Sandelin
dougsandelin.com
The Magnificent Capacity of Two Fireflies
by Jenny Qi previously appeared in Jellyfish Whispers
book design by j. brandon loberg
set in Absara
Promotional rights only.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form
without permission from individual authors.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the
internet or any other means without the permission of the
author(s) is illegal.
Your support is crucial and appreciated.

quietlightning.org
su bmit @ qui e tl i g h tn i n g . o r g

CONTENTS
curated by

Evan Karp & Jennifer Lewis

featured artist

Doug Sandelin

CHRIS AMES

No Tongue in the Morning

KACY CUNNINGHAM

Cant Unsee

MK CHAVEZ

For Broken Blossom

13
When My Body Becomes Glass 14

CASSANDRA DALLETT

15
17
19
21

Death Over Dinner

A Blue Jay Screams
Not Blonde Just Drunk
Vitiligo City

DIANE GLAZMAN

Refraction: A Fractured Sestina 23

CHAD KOCH

Second Act

27

JENNY QI

I Am Yi-Fen Chou
The Magnificent Capacity
of Two Fireflies

33

BEL POBLADOR

The Ancients

37

C.E. SHUE

The Beauty of Sleeping

41

BEN FINATERI

Always Chasing

49

KEN GROBE

The Legend of
St. Patricks Days Bar Crawl

53

35

MARGARET SPILMAN Dasi

59

EILA CARRICO

65

Swimming in the Dark

ET
QU I

G IS SPONSOR
LIGHTNIN
ED B
Y

lagunitas.com

QUIET LIGHTNING
A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet
Lightning is to foster a community based on literary
expression and to provide an arena for said expression. QL
produces a monthly, submission-based reading series on
the first Monday of every month, of which these books
(sparkle + blink) are verbatim transcripts.
Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the board of QL is
currently:
Evan Karp
executive director
Chris Cole
managing director
Josey Lee
public relations
Meghan Thornton treasurer
Kristen Kramer
chair
Kelsey Schimmelman
Sarah Ciston
Katie Wheeler-Dubin

secretary
director of books
director of films

Laura Cern Melo

art director
Christine No
producer/assistant managing director
If you live in the Bay Area and are interested in
helpingon any levelplease send us a line:
e v an @ qui et light nin g . o rg

- SET 1 -

NO T

CCCCCCCCCC

O N G UE IN THE M O R N I N G

Upon waking, you have the desire

to turn over the sheet
and eat your partners heart.
Its the same fitted sheet
youve been turning over your whole life.
It gets smaller each time its cleaned.
See the tag and think
wait, I know this one.
Corner left pocket.

Morning comes as a white square on your

lovers upper thigh. Maybe
you just now realize the strong blue veins
running the back of their leg
all that internal wiringbut even before you
were noticing it,
it was still there, pumping the good stuff
beneath all that skin.
Isnt it nice when they lay atop your back?
Letting the dead weight die. Keeping it slack.
1

You love like you dont know Father Time is undefeated.

Or, you fuck with the guitar noise of youth.
Or, you know that this isnt real life
but its fantastic television.

Coffee leaves film in the mouth but removes sand

from the eyes.
How heavy when the sleepy limb goes limp.
Softly go alone into that dream vacation.
Take turns taking things back. It wasnt youit was the
one-armed man.

In and exhale of your favorite little number, the steady

synced breathing of two animals at rest.
Motion to object as drool spills from your good side.

A gel capsule fizzes out

a stress dream. The more
you think about it,
the quicker it dissolves.
Keep the brain ginger.
Recall in a roundabout.
Ghosts can only appear
when you look
the other way.

Curiosity strikes
as the first words are
do you know how
an ultrasound works?
Its all call and response.
The short window
of time it takes
to pass right through you.

Ch ri s A me s

Slip back into the dense fog of a day off. Single strands of
hair on the pillow. Too long to be yours. Will you miss this
like baby teeth? A new set of bones every seven years.

Clean the insides out with barbicide. Time spent as dust,

collecting oneself in corners. In the slow dance of food
gone cold and wine gone warm. Mildew hugs the soft gut
of the kitchen sink. Hollow drum of the water spotted,
meal churning, disposable afternoon. An iron clothed,
rubber plugged future. Its clogged because of grease. Its
choked on overuse.

Pressure lingers in the small pocket of air between

knuckles. There is something on your tongue: will you
swallow?

Or will you run your finger again and again and again for
that empty line of thread?

Ch ri s A me s

K
KK

KKKKKKKKKKK

C A N T U N S E E
The room looks out over a small garden with more
weeds than flowers. I dont sit at the window much.
My imagination takes me to more interesting places,
but tonight a rabid raccoon attacks the neighbors
cat just after the sun sets. There is still light, but the
clouds are rolling in.
He once looked up at a winter moon, pointed, his face
all lit up. Can you imagine, he said. Can you imagine
what they thought before science? Id be afraid of the
moon. And I curled into him. I would never think
that thought, would never see the moon that way, and
I told myself it was lovely and it was love, and I tried, I
swear I tried. I wanted to see the moon the way he did.
He threw away the Christmas gifts I bought for his
family. Florence, Italy, and we had just missed the
train to Milan because he was pacing and cursing and
stirring his warm whiskey.
He never wanted to come to San Francisco.
How much do we give until we lose who we are?
How much can a soul compromise before the soul
7

is too chipped and the spirits song, lost? Yesterday I

stood at the foot of the ocean and asked the universe
but there was no reply, just sea slush.
So first was the Christmas incident, and I knew. In my
body, I shook with what I knew. I wouldnt love him
forever, not someone who could say the things he said,
and Im not even saying all he said because Ive blocked
out so much so that I can lie and live my postcardpretty life and call it an Italian love story, because I
fall in love with ideas rather than people, because
people are fucking disappointing, and no onenot one
personhas surprised me and not disappointed me.
How long before the tan line from my ring fades?
Then, the raccoon. You cant make that shit up. Then,
the tire. A flat tire so deflated, like no flat tire Ive seen,
and Ive seen and changed many. So deflated. Dont
you see? I felt so suffocated and unable to escape. Italy,
and theres nowhere to run because I have no family
or real friends nearby. San Francisco, and a cat is dying
while the man I must call my husband rips my journal
from my hands mid-sentence and throws it against
the wall so that the framed photo of our wedding kiss
slips and shatters. My journals spine is broken. The
cat scratches at the fence, screeches, but the sun keeps
disappearing and the neighbors wont be home for
another hour and the raccoons growl is louder than
the cats screech.

There was at least one beautiful night. I wanted

cherries. He bites back a yawn in the candlelight.
Winter. 1:30am. But the grocery is just down the
road, I whine. He stomps around the house. Right
now? I nod. Maybe I thought he would say no, maybe
I wanted him tomaybe I wanted an argument over
cherries, I dont know. Here we are, grocery aisle 2,
produce, and there arent any cherries, and there arent
any employees in the aisles, so we roam, stopping in
aisle 7 for a kiss, and I dont know how but the grocery
becomes like the most romantic place even with the
fluorescent lights, but he holds both of my shoulders
and pushes me away, then he moves away, his back to
me, leaving me in aisle 7 of the grocery.
I cant unhear, cant unhear the words, words that
I give such meaning because they have never let me
down. And I cant unsee. I want to talk sex in foreign
alleys and red-wine-dyed lips that I yearned to kiss
and tequila in backseats because I cant take another
argument in a grocery store in the yogurt aisle and the
silent dinner that always follows.
Half-buttoned, mis-buttoned, only two buttons
buttoned on a flannel and gray sweatpants that should
have been thrown away three years ago. Over-washed,
over-worn, lint balls and growing holes, and hes
watching YouTube videos at random, and its 3pm, and
hes barely been awake for two hours, and I hate his laugh
and the way he eats cereal and how he takes off his socks
with his toes. Did you refill the water pitcher? I ask.
Kacy Cu nni ngh am

I dont want to ask again. That wasnt what I was

asking.
This is the story I dont want to tell. I finally said I was
unhappy. Pasta in the pot, as usual. When he turned,
I saw his whiskey eyes. He smiled as he came at me,
punched the wall next to my face. I had to go to work.
I had to go. I dont want to lift my pant leg too high. I
dont want you to see. I cant unsee, cant unsee how
he shut the sliding glass door on me, then locked me
in the door, between glass and metal frame, and he
smiled and stuck out his tongue like a devil in some
cartoon, and you dont know this story because I dont
know this story, and you dont know him because hes
not just a character but a person, and he doesnt know
himself so how can we really know him, and trust me, I
too want to choose words like monster and villain, and
I want to paint with blacks and blues and indigos, but it
doesnt erase the pinks and yellows that seep through,
because there was a time when I hopped through
puddles, Piazza della Signoria, and he followed me
and hopped too, and we had matching rain boots, and
our cheeks were so raised from all of the laughing, and
the tourists had gone inside, shopping, and the locals
clucked their tongues at us, swerving past us with
sharp black umbrellas, and we jumped from puddle to
puddle, like nothing else mattered, my hand in his, my
eyes on him, and it was love, some kind of love, and
that rain was okay, it was light, it was Italian rain, he
understood it, knew it wouldnt rain any harder than
it already had, but even then, he gripped my hand just
10

a touch too much, and that look, I thought it was lust,

but it was darker, because he wanted to possess me,
to own me, and luckily I had never met someone like
that so I didnt know, and its easy to write evil on a
chalkboard, circle it twice, say this is evil, this is abuse,
and it is, it is, it is, I know it is, but its messier, its even
uglier, its suffocating, and its serious because this is
some shit, some shit that could cloud up a life forever,
and it becomes an ashy pit, and dont you dare feel
sorry for me, because Im talking puddles here, were
in the good part, the good days, love, remember?
He gripped my hand. Ti amo, and I answered back,
into the rain. And we fell back onto the cobblestones.
Flat backs on cold, broken slats of cobblestone. Hands
clasped. Matching boots touching at the toes. Thats it,
yeah. Thats the story I prefer. But I was blinking into
the rain, looking up at the ugly gray sky, thinking I
could maybe hear wars in the distance. No. I convinced
myself it was fireworks. His hand tightened more,
inched up to my wrist. His hand kept tightening, kept
clamping down, kept tightening, tightening too tight
around my wrist.
But I will, yes, yes, I will, I will still smile and tell you
that life is beautiful because, damn it all to hell, it is.
It still is. It has to be. It is.

Kacy Cu nni ngh am

11

MMMMMMMMM

F O R BRO

K EN BL O SS O M

after Joseph Cornells Crystal Palace

Please recognize yourself

I have made memories for
you and placed
them in a box
in the heavens Strange dove
of flotsam you are
Joan of Arc, broken blossom
please recognize yourself

I have made
for Joan of Arc
please recognize
made memories for
in the box in the
dove of flotsam
not everything needs

memories
broken blossom
yourself I have
you and placed them
heavens Strange
you are proof
an explanation or cage

13

WHEN MY BODY BECOMES GLASS

A finger will play my edges and make me hum like
when bees basket anthers and stamen. Name me
fragility and bruised petals. So see through me.
Look at the violet of my natural disaster, my organs
bruised boutique. The body no longer hides and seeks.
Stripped to basic, the blood you make surge superior,
inferior. Examination of my starfire, my bright and
empty. Let this be my autopsy, that when you touched
me you made me sing.

14

C
CC

CCCC

CCCCCCC

CC

DEATH OVER DINNER

Eating noodle soup under the TV

a black mans murder looping and looping through
the meal
around the twentieth time they show the clip
I want to stand, cover the screen with my body
hide this mans last moment from the nonchalant
dinners
I am not brainwashed enough
always react to the inoculation
every murder a loss, no matter how they point to
criminality.
After the restaurant we walk the lake under confused
sky
sunshine glares between big black clouds
moving over us fast, so its rain then shine
then shining in rain I yell, where is the rainbow?!
two sistahs on a bench smile, all dazzling teeth and
natural hair
cubes of buildings hug the choppy lake
and pink flowers hug the Masonic buildings.
The wind has pushed pools of sludge to the sides
and I wonder at spectacle,
15

piles of black bodies we witness, and witness,

stew into a frenzy but cannot stop.
Posting photos of Kenyan students bullet ridden
bodies,
like the man on the news, will not bring them back
or honor their lives.
It will not help to show you a thing until you are
numb to it,
Its deliberate we have accepted this a background to
our meal.
This barrage of body bags, the reading of autopsies as
poem,
the dissection of black flesh, as if theyre still
surprised at humanity revealed
We all bleed the same but we dont die the same.
Holocaust piles of black bodies inhabit the news
if they are reported at all
Those students barely made the evening rundown
the news channels too busy repeating themselves
about fallen planes full of white folks
burning up the Swiss alps.

Rest in peace, Walter Scott.

16

A BLUE JAY SCREAMS

talks more shit than the brothers on the corner
the empty storefront there waves Post It notes in the
wind
the new buyers want to know
what the neighborhood would like to see here
people with strollers stop to scrawl messages and I
wonder
what they say.
Weve had liquor.
Weve had church
singing late and loud on Friday nights.
Weve had a gambling den
of bikers drilling up plywood and guarding the door
as face tattoos guard their toothless mouths.
For years Ive said to my son, while bending that
corner
that store determines our gentrification
I cant imagine the inevitable hipster coffee shop at
this intersection,
with its nasty burritos, bad Chinese food,
laundry mat, and nail shop Ive never been in.
Judys Black And White liquor store
Cassandra Dalle t t

17

has been driven into and shot up several times.

E. 27th has a firebug, five cars so far
smashed windows, broken axles, and fractured hoods,
crashing iron fences.
Sooty glass glitters and burned clothing strewn from
a burned orange hatch back.
The other day a melted trashcan puked blackened
garbage into the street.
Late in July the street has finally been swept.
The illegal fireworks are dying down.
Each night at least one Cherry Bomb or Roman
Candle startles
but the constant shelling gets quieter.
Maybe thats what the Blue Jay screams of
these crazy ass humans needing love and attention
spending rent money on explosives.
Brown men so invisible in this country of dreamers
some small piece of all eyes on me
in their thumping bass and sagging jay walk.
Their M80 blasts terrifying car alarms into song.
Their rockets that light up the night
to tell the world
how much a young man can sparkle and sing.
How much fire in the sky he needs
to feel himself shine here in the ghetto.

18

NOT BLONDE JUST DRUNK

When the news breaks
the white bitch trying to pass as black
some shit you might have expected from the nineties,
but now??!!
The country so blonde, so dumbed down, so split apart.
The n word flies free with the confederate flag.
stars n bars replace the swastika
you know this shit is out there, bam in your face
like rosebud porn where prolapsed intestines
push out womens assholes from all of the fucking.
We rejoice the Black President making heart signs
rainbow-ing up the white house.
God forbid he get black anywhere but in that church,
full of dead Christianspeople so good and
righteous,
so hard working I hang my head in shame at being alive
when they are not.
Outrage shifts from baby girl with the fake tan
and the Afro perm to the killings and then to the flag.
Then we are outraged at the level of forgiveness
so Christ-like infuriating, more churches burn
and more and nobody is talking about it
Cassandra Dalle t t

19

maybe were all too busy getting married under the

rainbow
the next catastrophe right under our noses.
We still havent proven that those nine lives were as
precious
as three white ones, were still holding signs
I Am A Man.
Weve got our eyes on the screen trying to post the
next thing
the next thing to make us foam at our bit,
and if we dont raise our voice, or we do,
if we dont get the words out fast enough, or we say
old white people shouldnt speak on the cockiness of
Yeezy
someone will call us sexist, ageist, able-ist,
God knows we are ignorant, racist, privileged, and
pampered
and we will be accused of posting only cute cat videos.
While the police call murder suicide
while the press calls terrorist confused child
but never called Tamir or Trayvon child
cause black kids never really are children here
while we #sayhername and call each other names
and it all becomes too much
you will beg us for those cat videos
the news so dismal
another white lady trying to be black
will be funnier than a kitten and a ball of yarn.

20

VITILIGO CITY
We talk about the casting of a white crew in a movie
about Egypt.
We talk about the withdrawing, the down cast eyes,
the avoidance,
of white folks in San Francisco when a young man, a
young black man,
pulls his bag of cleaning supplies to work every day.
A city embarrassingly called diverse when it is
anything but, so white washed, so priced out are
we, and I tell him yes, I saw it coming I saw it
happening, and as if dreaming couldnt get the
sound out of my mouth, whole blocks of black
families had left the city in my lifetime and I am
reliving it now across the bridge. I am trying to
scream but my mouth is full of property values
and fear, though honestly these young hip money-makers make me love my ghetto home, relish
in its lawlessness and lack of street sweeping.
We talk about music and movies all of us voting
new DAngelo on music and Korean flicks on
movies, the young brother calls himself folksy
in his musical taste and I preach the gospel of
old-school Hip-Hop and necessary homework of
learning your sampled songs, over empty bottles
Cassandra Dalle t t

21

of wine, over the whitening cast of the music

where Igloo Australia and Macklemore are the
kings and queens like in Hollywoods Egypt, how
far backwards we are these days, how light-bright
this town will become, this grungy old mother to
Panthers and struggle
losing its color like it has some kind of skin disease.

22

DDD

DDDDDDDDDD

R E F R A C TI O N :

A FRACTURED SESTINA
Red is the longest wavelength of light visible to the
human eye at 625-740nm.
Orange exists between red and yellow and is seen at
582-620nm.
Yellow stimulates both the long and medium
wavelength receptors, at 570-580nm.
Green dominates the spectrum of energy at 520-570nm.
Blue has a wavelength of approximately 440-490nm.
And purple, though a mixture of blue and red, is
visible at 420-400nm.
Royalty, imperialism, nobility, penitence.
Aggression, blood, energy, passion, sacrifice, sin.
Desire, flamboyance, fire, warning.
Warmth and cowardice, caution and sunshine.
Growth, health, hope, nature, envy.
Water, winter, cold, sadness, ice and sky.
Homer called the Aegean wine dark sea, lacking the
word for blue.
In 975 of the common era, the English first learned
the word for purple.
In Sanskrit, rudra means red.
Gay-uhl-re-add became naranja became the name
23

for the fruit we call an orange.

Beowulf carried a shield made of yew that was the
color yellow.
Growen has always meant to grow to be green.
Forest, moss, lime, viridian, malachite, celadon,
chartreuse.
Cerulean, cobalt, Prussian, sky, baby, ultramarine.
Orchid, heliotrope, violet, lavender, han, tyrian.
Vermillion, scarlet, crimson, rose, ruby, carnation.
Tangerine, carrot, burnt, Gamboge, apricot,
persimmon.
Cadmium, ochre, lemon, mustard, corn, saffron,
school bus.
Pencils are painted yellow because the best graphite
came from China.
Everyone wore tinted glasses that turned things
green in the Emerald City.
Depression and sadness are blue moods because when
Zeus cried it rained.
Crushed snail shells gave Louis XIV purple robes in
which to hide.
More nations use red in their flags than any other color.
Like silver and purple, orange has no true rhyme in
English.
In 2001, Homeland Security terrorized us all with the
color orange.
During the Second World War, this countrys enemy
was a peril of yellow.
24

Puritans hanged women as witches for wearing the

devils color, green.
Old World aristocrats craved skin so pale the blood in
their veins looked blue.
In Nazi Germany, same sex lovers were forced to
wear triangles of purple.
Settlers in the American West warred against anyone
in skin that looked red.
We perceive red to be different from yellow or orange,
Want to believe green is dissimilar to blue or purple,
When, at the level of the atoms which make up our
bodies,
Color
is energy,
And cannot be seen
until it is broken.

Di ane Glazman

25

CCCCCCCCC

SE C O N D A C T
Im unzipping my pants when it really sets in that
Im about to have sex with a furry. The man Ive met
on Craigslist is standing in front of me adjusting the
Velcro on the crotch of his fur suit. Hes dressed in what
looks like a Mickey Mouse costume except softer, like
one of those giant stuffed animals won at a carnival. I
studied biology in college, but I cant recognize what
animal hes supposed to be. I think some sort of gazelle,
but the fur is purple, so it could actually be a fantasy
animal like a kirin or one of those unicorns that have
psychic powers.
Im going to do your back first, he says and has me
lay on the massage table. He removes his paws or
hooves and struggles to pour oil onto his human hands
without getting any on his suit. His studio apartment
is freezing and all I can think about is draping his
animal body over me. The suit even has the smell of fur,
a mixture of BO and steamed rice.
For my part, Im dressed-up in a fluffy tail that
represents a Siberian tiger, a t-shirt with a tiger face
on the front, and my baby-blue boxer-briefs, which
have nothing to do with tigers. Im just a beginner.
27

If I knew when I answered his ad that Id be here two

hours later, I wouldve at least bought white mittens
beforehand, like Ive seen on the internet. All I had
in the apartment was one tarnished gardening glove
under the sink, and when I put it on I looked like a
Disney Afternoon cartoon parody of Thriller era Michael
Jackson.
Remove your shirt, he says, and then reassures me
with, I wont bite. I dont have a response that
involves an animal-based pun, but Im trying. I slip out
of my shirt, and the hair on my neck rises when the oil
touches my back.
Hows that feel, Toby? He says in a Barry White
deep voice, obviously not his voice, his fursonas voice.
Toby is my fursona name. Toby the tigerI thought
that was pretty clever. Fursona is like the inner spirit
animal they talk about in yoga class, but is enhanced
in that you are the spirit animal. He rubs the back of
my shoulders, the oil heating with friction from the
opposable thumbs he shouldnt have.
It feels puurrrrfffect.
As he makes his way over my shoulder blades, I
think about how I ended up in half a furry costume
whispering animal noises to a complete stranger. The
short answer is that I have begun my second act. You
know, the second part of your life. The thing parents
say to you when youre thirty-two and still working
28

at In-N-Out Burgerdont worry son, you still have

your second act! But my second act isnt as interesting
as having arrested development and playing Call of
Duty in my parents basement.
My second act began when the partner of my life, the
man I graduated college with, the man I got my first
real apartment withthe one with the dishwasher
and laundryleft me for another man. My second act
began when the man who taught me how good a tongue
feels between my toes, the man who stayed overnight
on our first date telling me Ive been waiting for you
all my lifeappeared at the bathroom doorway ten
years later and said instead, I dont even know who
you are anymore. My second act began when the
love of my life left just one of his work shirts when
he moved out, and I wear it, even though its two sizes
too big and has a coffee stain on the cuff. It smells like
him, not the cologne he wears, but the thin smell of his
skin, of his lifefaint, but enough. Thats the kind of
second act Im in.
A little harder, I say to my playmate. I want to feel
some pain. It sounds awkward as it echoes off the
unpainted walls. It sounds like porn which eases my
shoulders so that they rest on the table. For a moment
I think Ive chosen wisely by trying out this furry thing.
That this sudden desire to be with someone decked out
in soft fur, something warmer than my lonely body, is
the perfect remedy, the safe haven where only pleasure
is allowed. For a moment, theres total relaxation, and
Ch ad Koch

29

my jaw slackens, a bit of drool slips out, and a soft

grunt escapes my lips. Ive finally found something I
can enjoy again.
At least until he starts punching my spine. I wonder if
Im being a bad playmate with this stranger. I wonder
if being new to the scene is making me selfish and
nave and only concerned about my own orgasm. So
I moan out his name. Ooohhhh. But I dont even
know his name, so I stop moaning. He moves to my
side and lights four small candles on a table in front of
me, like a birthday cake.
My ex never forgot my birthday. He planned it
months in advance, and took the day off to clean the
apartment and get me little giftsa chocolate truffle,
movie tickets, some sexy underwearlike the twelve
days of Christmas. On my last birthday, Id gotten an
email from my ex. I was so surprised I couldnt open it
until lunch. It didnt say happy birthday or, as Id hoped,
I miss you. Instead he asked me to repay the security
deposit.
You need to get out of your headspace. My furmate
says. The kneading of his fingers is intense now like the
weight of a steaming iron as it smoothes out a twisted
bed sheet. The kneading hits something, like a bruise,
or a pimple, or cancer. I imagine him continuing to
rub this spot. Hell say I feel tension here or this is
the center of all your pain. Ill think back to when I
returned to an empty apartment with a pile of keys on
30

the table, a plastic cup flipped in the sink, a single stray

button. Ill say yes to my furmate and the pain will
cause my eyes to well with tears, an obvious metaphor
for the disintegration of, not just my relationship, but
my life. Then hell press down hard on the tumor, Ill
beg him to press down harder, until theres a sharp pop
and we share a long sensual howl.
But it doesnt happen. He passes over it a second time
and then moves on to my ass. He asks me to lower my
underwear and slaps my rump. And then he pauses. I
feel his breath on my ear and he says Im going to do
your thighs now. Lift up your tail for me. Let yourself
go.
And I really do try. I growl and grind my thighs against
his polyester covered chest, hoping to create a static
charge that flashes through us both and sets off wild
orgasmic ecstasy. He thrusts back giving me everything
he has to offer. But the shock never comes. My arms
give out from under me and my voice breaks into a
whimper.

Ch ad Koch

31

JJJJJJJJ

I A M Y I- F E N C H O U
I dont date white men
who pose for photos
with Asian women
and sedated Asian tigers.
I refuse
to be colonized.
Ninth grade world history,
second row, shaking with shame
and fury at Mr. Johnson
describing the Opium Wars
thousands of years and blazing
firecrackers and tall ships
and Monkey Kings journey
towards immortality
reduced to these fifty minutes
of a peoples degradation, chalked up
to government inefficiency
by people who bought too much
into the story of Adam
and think we are their
33

exotic birthright,
like the tigers and the flowers
and the dying bees.
Of course we are blamed
for our invasion.
Look at my inheritance
too-white skin and freckles,
lust for eyelid surgery
proof of their telling
of history.
How do you know
Im not a white man
taking a Chinese
womans voice?

34

THE MAGNIFICENT
CAPACITY OF TWO
FIREFLIES
When stars flicker out, you want
to believe in reincarnation.
Maybe in another life, youll be
a firefly, and Ill be a moth
following, drawn ceaselessly
into your light. Or perhaps
I will chase you like daylight,
follow from the in-between.
Or Ill become a firefly with you
so in untainted darkness, youll find me
looking skyward, still believing
the wisdom of white flames and gas.

Je nny Qi

35

- SET 2 -

BBB

BBBBBBBBB

T H E A N CI E N TS
When my mother and grandma fight, it is ancient.
They stand in the kitchen, a head of garlic forgotten
on the counter as they face each other with eyes
steady and on fire. I stand to the side, protector and
protectedI, who am my mothers daughter, watching
daughter who is now mother, and grandma who also
was and is daughter.
The air crackles with electricity thats been building
up over months, years, centuriesI feel it in my bones,
and the tiny hairs on my arm rise as if at attention, as if
theyre waiting for something, too, as if they will bear
witness because it is an honor when nature collides in
front of you.
When my mother and grandma fight, it starts off slow,
a pot of hot water simmering. The air in the room
grows heavy, each word pregnant with meaning, with
things not said, and things that have been said many
times beforerepeated over and over again, battering
and thrashing and flailing to be understood. They are
the sky before the downpour, before deluge and
cloudburst, and I am here bracing for torrents and
flood.
37

My mother draws out her words like ironing,

smoothing out wrinkles with searing metala slow,
tense wind moving through palm tree corridors. My
grandma listens to her, eyelids blinking slow and
sleepy like a lizard in the sun, but her heartbeat races,
body tense and readying for the pick-up.
There is a pause before storm connects with land,
before spark rages fire. Then the house overflows with
all the hard Ks and deep Gs of our familys dialect,
Ilonggo. My grandma exclaiming, Lintik ka! in
frustration, Lightning strike you, and I avert my eyes in
preparation for the flash, for the forked bolt to split the
ground and send us all running. Our staccato language
expandsfills the house to bursting as thunder and
lightning roll slowly in, the clashes tumbling one over
the other, older and more powerful than I could ever
hope to be.
When my mother and grandma fight it is a battle
between waves. They stand facing each other, spit
flying, bodies rigid except for when arms lash out in
emphasis, when feet stomp the ground in anger. They
storm away only to come barreling back seconds later,
their words ocean foam curling around their legs. This
fight between mother and daughter, between two
separate beings, two strong women who are also one
in the same, like the sea turning in on itself, a civil war
that is familiar, familial, age-old because time is not a
straight line in one direction, it is a whirlpool circling
in on itself, a snake eating its own tail, it is typhoon
38

rain that evaporates back into the sky once the sun
comes out blazing.
When my mother and grandma fight, I feel the plate
tectonics shifting, earthquake rumbling as the earth
groans and moves her foundations because she has
been in one position for too long, and the tension has
built up, past the point of pain and there is pleasure
in release, in explosion, in breaking down what shes
worked so hard to buildbecause sometimes you have
to start from the beginning. The earth adjusts her hips
to open wider, she moves her shoulders back so that
her heart is more open and vulnerable, she understands
that there is strength in emotion, in giving, as these two
womens voices rise higher in the house, struggling to
be heard, to give form, struggling to understand and
yet working to build boundaries. They fight because
it is in their blood, because they are blood, because
they have bled, because their anger comes from the
land, because their skin aches to be touched, because
their words bring each other closer, because silence is
passed down from our fathers like a disease and these
women are survivorsthese women will give up for
nothing. They are extracting the poison one word at
a time. My grandpa has died and my father has left
but my mother and grandma fight to stay, they fight
because they have to, they fight because if they dont
there is only silence.
When my mother and grandma fight, I feel my body
pulse with life. My mouth opens to howl, gulping
Be l P oblador

39

for breath. My hands spasm as if wanting to grasp, to

dress myself in this legacy of woman, of heavy and
warm and wet, of never giving up. My heart thuds in
anticipation, my toes curl against the floor waiting to
push me forward. I am a balete tree, age-old, twisted,
curling, gnarled. I am a whale filled with songs that
haunt the sea. I am a rock that holds the ocean. When
they fight, I remember that I am ancient, I remember
that I have survived, I remember that I have always
been here.

40

CCCCCCCCC

TH E BE

A U T Y O F SL E E P I N G
I. Birthday

I remember

It was my birthday. My old life in

The woods was over. My new life

In the castle

Beginning. I was told to trade in trees

For the stone etiquette of city walls.

My life was mine

No longerexcept for her gift

To me. Did she see my fate when

I was a baby?

Did she bless me with a curse or curse

Me with a blessing? So cleverly

41

Hidden, not even

I knew of its existence. I knew the trees
In the forest and the wolves among the

Trees, their eyes

Glowing at night as they rannot

The spinning wheel making thread

To stitch me

To a life in this new stone world.

II. The Beauty of Sleeping

The truth is: I chose to strike

The sharp tip

The taste of blood shocked me

Into waking. Trickling down

My skin, I chose

To feel the sting. I tasted its rich red

On my tongue. Sacrifices happen

42

All the time

Do they not? Viscous and wet.

One way or another. And everyone

In the castle

Slept with me. Freed from names, my

Mother and Father, no longer

King and Queen

Traveled to lands beyond. Guards,

Released from their posts, felt the grass
Beneath their feet, bare
Ladies in Waiting dreamed dreams
Of ladies not waiting. Did cooks

Stir vast pots

Of dream soup?

Did valets brush

Dreams of velvet waistcoats?
Sleep
Is a kind death

Dreams, a kind of life

C.E. Sh u e

43

Cursed and blessed

I wandered

One hundred years

In the forest

Glowing among the trees and glades and harems of

flowers with bees where unharemed and enchanted
I spun my spells

III. Dream: The Woodsman

The woodsman offers me his protection in exchange
for my loveliness. He brings me home to keep me safe.
The woodsman works all day in the forest, leaving
me in his cabin alone. I stay, trying to make the cabin
into a home. I sweep the floor and sew curtains for
the windows, cook stews over the fire. The cabin
is comfortable and warm, especially when it rains.
The woodsman is kind, quiet, and he smells like
eucalyptus and cypress trees. He is a wolf in disguise,
even to himself. The wolf within tells me I should
be grateful; the woodsman has saved me. We live
together peacefully until one day, I leave the house
among the trees, telling myself I am only going for
a walk and that I will return before the woodsman
comes home. I take note of the change in the air as
the trees grow thicker around me, as I roam further
from the cabin. My mind grows too, quieter, until the
wolf within goes silent. A new voice speakswhose
is it? To be beheld is to be beholden, she says. I come
44

to a clearing with a small marshy lake filled with

trumpeter swans. A flotilla of small ships, gracefully
propelled by webbed feet, hidden beneath the surface
of the water. It is Fall and the swans are migrating to
the their winter nesting grounds. As if on some silent
cue, the bevy of birds rise as one and flies towards
the warmth of the sun. What is it they know? I can
almost read the words their bodies spell out in flight.

IV. Dream: Wolf

I revive myself

With rainwater from

The she-wolfs footprint.

Sleep in her

Skin, incurably feral.

Moonlight licks my face.

Rooting in nether-growth,

Stalking strange

Incense, essence,
Balm and tang,
C.E. Sh u e

45

We run, a single body

Hunting together.
Blood on knife-edged leaves,

The holly bite of a live oak tree

Makes me more

Thirsty still.

V. Wind
I walk the forest
At eye level detecting

The angle of leaves,

Direction of wind.
The shadows,
Air on my skin.

Bark shreds itself

As protection,
Burrowing insects

46

Falling to the forest floor.

In the river, I scoop

Up oysters, pry open

Their rocky shells.

In the absence of pearls,

I wolf down their mossy liquor.

VI. Dream: Water Woman

Water woman, keeper
Of serpents and seasons,

Eater of the sun and moon,

Here, she says, holding

Out her hand: A prickly pear.

It is her heart.

She of the jade skirt

Opens her legs, entrance,
Womb,
Lifes water. Her
Desire makes the

River boil around me.

C.E. Sh u e

47

And I, fishing
Her tributaries

Inhabiting her soul
With my body.

48

Live in the fifth world,

BBBB

BBBBBBBB

ALWAYS CHASING
Hes lying in the bath, water up to his chin.
Shes on his mind of course
because lately shes always on his mind.
He wants to forget her face,
to stop wondering what shes doing,
to quit making up conversations,
ruminating on what he couldve said, or what he will
say ifwhen
he sees her again.
He feels the next thought coming and says aloud to
the empty bathroom,
Always chasing.
He thinks of card games he invented as a child.
Sitting on the living room floor,
shuffling, dealing, playing all the hands, recording
the scores.
Days going by.
Chasing calm in the repetition.
He thinks of his notebooks,
filled with stats copied by hand
from baseball encyclopedia season recaps.
Weeks spent resorting data
49

into lifetime stats for

Ted Williams,
Bob Gibson,
Mordecai Centennial 3 Finger Brown,
Steve Balboni,
Dick Allen,
Matty Alou, and on and on.
Chasing clarity in the numbers.
He thinks of the Halloween movies.
The original a treat, then he had to watch Halloween
II.
He skipped threeno Michael Myers
and in his bones he knew he should stop,
as he watched
Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers,
Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers,
Halloween: Curse of Michael Myers,
Halloween H20,
Halloween Resurrection,
and both Rob Zombie remakes.
When he finished, he thought,
why the fuck did I watch fifteen hours of Halloween
movies?
He feels empathy for Michael Myers.
Relentless in his chasing.
Chasing control.
He thinks of Melanie.
He wanted to chase the chemical bubbles of new
love,
50

to feel them bouncing around in his brain,

and when Melanie needed a place to stay,
and he could sleep on his own couch of course,
he thought, maybe, catching her wont be so hard.
He chased her all over the Lower East Side.
Sometimes she said come on; sometimes she said stop,
so he got to analyzing,
and when he saw no matter how often she said
come on
shed always say stop,
he fucked other people and jerked off and
fucked and jerked off but coming has never been
enough.
He thinks of the photos he takes.
Stacks of skulls in the Paris Catacombs.
The ash-colored cast of a victim of Vesuvius.
Mummified nuns in the basement of a museum in
Mexico City.
The crypt in Rome where monks decorated
with their dead brothers skeletons.
Hip bones displayed in a circle resemble a blooming
flower.
Hes lying in the bath, water up to his chin.
Shes on his mind of course
because lately shes always on his mind.
Shes so long gone and shell be so long gone from his
head too,
when he finds something new to chase.

Be n F i nat e ri

51

KKKKKKKKK

ST. PA T H E L E G E N D O F
TRICKS DAYS BAR CRAWL
Time: 5:23 PM
Bar: Chachlagen OLichniches
Everyone knows the value of a holiday is measured
by its bar crawl. Which is why the best holiday is St.
Patricks Day. Halloween is fun, but its way too cold
to go from bar to bar when youre dressed as sexy Incredible Hulk. Thats why every March 17, I take my
two best bitches, plus Jared, whos bi so hes like half
bitch, and we have to hit every. single. irish. bar
on Horton Street between 21st and 23rd. Everyone
gets completely schnackered and guys hit on us and
fights break out and police horses get stabbed and its
super fun. Last year a homeless man set himself on
fire! They put him out so hes ok now. I mean hes still
homeless but whatever. Also I peed green for a whole
week!
This year were starting at Chachlagen OLichliches,
which might actually be a Jewish deli, but they serve
green beer so whatever.

53

Time: 7:04 PM.

Bar: The Hog and Goiter
So were barely six drinks in at the Goiter and Summer
is like, Kaitlyn and Im like What? and Summers
like shes here And then Im like Whos here? and
then I hear the wailing. You know how you have that
friend you see just once a year because thats all you
can stand them? For us, thats the Banshee.
The Banshee is a total hoverer who stands close to a
bunch of people she doesnt really know and waits for
a break in the conversation so she can start moaning
about how she was killed in a moor 600 years ago.
Were always like Bitch, shut up and drink! But she
just drones on and on about this guy who molested and
drowned her and blah blah blah. such a drama queen.
It just gets so boring that we take her to a Karaoke
bar and ditch her as soon as she starts singing Total
Eclipse of the Heart. Also, why is she always damp?
Its called a hair dryer, Banshee. Google it.
Time: 9:47 PM
Bar: The Pregnant Rose
Im not gonna lie; Im super into short guys. So when
I came out of my blackout to find myself making out
with one, I was not surprised. First of all, fyi, derby
hats are the new fedoras. Second of all, he had one
of those U-shaped beards with no mustache, which
newsflashis the new sideburns. And then? When he
54

jumped off his stool to fix my shoe? I wanted to bang

the green off his bow tie. So I said Lets go back to
your place and suddenly he goes super aggro. He calls
me all these names and hes all, Me gold! Youre after
me gold! and Im like, I dont need your stupid gold.
Do you know who my dad is? Then he tries to bite
me, so Lachlan the bouncer hauls him outside. Later
that night we spotted Lachlan but he had donkey ears
and we were like, Its not Halloween, Lachlan. Some
people live for attention.
Time: 12:02 AM
Bar: Declan McTesticocs
I am generally a 100% chill person, even when Im
completely slizzerd, but it was really not cool when the
snakes showed up. I mean, were leaving the Pregnant
Rose, trying to hide the bottles of Grey Goose we stole
from the back, when Ashleys all like Ow and Im
like What and shes like I think a snake bit me
and Im like Youre such a liar, Ashley and then she
dies in the street. Thats when I notice like thousands
of actual snakes slithering down Horton Street and I
scream super loud. I grab Summer and Jared and pull
them into McTesticocs and lock the door and we jump
on the bar and yell there are snakes outside but
no one could hear us over the Mumford and Sons.
Then Jared pokes my boob and says, Theres a guy out
there, and Im like So what? and hes like look
and I look and holy shit: Theres an old man with a
Ke n Grobe

55

long beard in the middle of Horton street, just like

wading into the snakes.
And Jareds like, isnt that the guy who hit on you at
OHurliflynns?
And Im like, Oh my god it is. He still had the green
stain on his robe from where I threw my beer at him.
Now he hes like knee-deep in snakes and he holds out
this stick with a cross on the top of it and raises it in
the air.
Thats when the guy Summer is making out with looks
up and points at the window and shouts, Hey! That
dude is glowing!
And he totally was! And his glow makes the snakes all
hiss really loud and retreat. He was like some sort of
snake herder or something, which Ill bet pays tons if
youve got the right client. He forces all of them down
the sewer, where Im sure they will never bother us
again. Everyone in the bar cheers. I was so relieved I
forced Jared to make out with me. I have serious upper
body strength.
Three drinks or five minutes later I say to Summer,
that. was. insane. Have you ever heard of
someone driving snakes away like that? And she says,
well isnt that what St. Patrick did? And Im like
Who? And she pushes me off the bar.

56

And thats when I realized: Next year for St. Pats Im

wearing my sexy Incredible Hulk costume! Now that
will be epic.

Ke n Grobe

57

MM
MM

MMMMMMMMMM

MM

D A SI
When Dasi first started becoming a platypus he didnt
expect the process to take so long.
His resolve hadnt softened; the decision to change
from Homo Sapien to Ornithorhynchus Anatinus was
one he made again and again, against every use of his
broad, cumbersome, all too human body.
Practically speaking, he was struggling with the beak
at this point. The fur and the tail had been easy enough
to will into existence. Be the change you want to see in
the world, and all that. The hardest part was trusting
the pain as his body lurched into more platypine
shapes. He had started small in the beginning, a patch
of fur on his lower back and the underside of his left
thigh. The oil-slicked pelt had grown considerably
since then and he took pride in the effort and the
promise of each new follicle. Dasi was a glass half full,
skin half covered in fur kind of guy.
His older brother Zane leaned against their parents
dining room table and wriggled a spoon at his
patched face.

59

Now Im not saying youre not serious, but remember

when you pierced everything and dyed your hair black?
Then a month later it was polo shirts and a buzz cut.
Dasi adjusted his tail against the wicker chairs
unwelcome creaking. This is different.
I know it is! Im sure, well, but, if you change your
mind, it could be awkward, for you I mean.
Their father kept quiet by stuffing his mouth full of
mashed potatoes. He was dripping with buttery drool
when his words finally overcame the force of starch.
Hes got a tail now for gods sake, Zane!
Their mother piled a plate full of fried chicken, high as
her chin, and placed it in front of Dasi. He pushed the
plate aside. I need shrimp. Or worms if theres any.
Worms! Zane grimaced. Dasi, see this is what I mean,
now you want worms? How long is that going to last
really? Youve never eaten a worm in your life.
Dasi stared at the fried chicken. How many more
family dinners that only sickened the animal he
wanted to become? Enough. He was a platypus. It
boiled inside him with the thousands of insufficient
explanations that he was forced to give to everyone
from the grocery store cashier to the wino camped
on his block. The smell of chicken grease made his
60

stomach twist. No matter how far youve gotten, no

one respects half measures. He smacked fleshy lips
together until the sound went from wet to hard, until
they clicked and blackened. His teeth wiggled out of
bloodied gums and clinked against the china. The skin
under his nose began to harden. He wanted to cough
but couldnt find enough air.
Now son, not at the table! His father wiped the butter
from his chin as his brother wretched, never one for
the sight of blood.
Oh honey, your brother, the table cloth! His mother
wailed.
Dasis tongue flattened and squeezed, excess taste buds
popped out onto his plate. He could breathe again,
more fully than ever before. The fallen teeth stacked
nicely into a pile beside the fried chicken. Zane raced
to the bathroom to brush the bile off his own pearly
whites, while their mother got the Clorox wipes, and
their father moved on to the green beans. Regardless
of anyones reaction, Dasi had a beak now.
You should have waited for Julie, his mother
murmured, depositing the remaining molars in the
trash. He hadnt thought of that, he hadnt thought of
Julie at all, and that would make her madder than the
beak ever could.
Julie was his girlfriend. She was wonderful.
Margare t Sp i lman

61

Her hair looked like soft mud, her voice was like river
water. She did not want to be a platypus, but she was
someone a platypus could love. The night before,
tangled together in bed, Julie worried about when the
claws would come. It wasnt just the poisonous spurs
on the ankles, but more that she liked holding hands.
She liked how he could reach the high shelves in the
kitchen, but shed started to buy stools and ladders.
They would adjust. The spurs would be better than
mace, she told him. They talked about marriage but he
wanted his claws and beak before they went further.
She told him she admired his honesty, but he had to
include her in the process. No surprises.
He tried to meter the changes out logically so people
could prepare themselves accordingly. But sometimes
the desire to become overwhelmed the desire to be
understood. It was a sloppy business, the becoming.
He was worried about how his voice would sound to
Julie. It would be a new voice, new tongue, new kiss.
He had been thinking too long, resting his chin against
the peach suede of the couch in the apartment they
shared, his limbs were numb from the effort of stillness.
He didnt want to use them anymore, they didnt even
feel like his to use. The rumbling inside him did not
want to be convenient. It did not want to be slow and
casual. His waiting turned into wanting, gnawing out
of his doubt, wanting to feel whole. He felt himself
shrinking, the arc of his spine cracking like gunshots,
wet coughs from his new mouth bubbled against his
62

soft brown pelt, now fully realized. The room melted,

spun, expanded. Space was not as he had grown into
it, but as he had always imagined it could be. Hands
folded into wrists, inching up into his elbows. The flab
of his biceps, latched into his shoulders, excruciating
movements dripping with discarded fat and flesh.
The excess humanity sloshed off and stained the peach
suede. His fingers stretched out from his shoulder
sockets. He concentrated against each familiar
fingerprint, replacing them with hooked claws and
slick, leathery webs. Dasi couldnt smile, but the reflex
remained. Happiness filled the beats of his small, rapid
heart. Glee extended from the black webs into his
ankles and pushed out two spurs filled with venom.
Every sound was a new language. The sound of
icemaker straining itself in the fridge became new,
worth attention and joy. New ears. Julies key in
the lock, impossible to recognize as the same sound
he heard everyday. New light from the old bulb in
the hallway, her silhouette becoming rigid, her gasp
slapping against his fresh ears: ecstasy.
She lifted him up from the stained couch. Her words
came too quickly, and far too loudly, for him to
interpret. She plopped him down on a pillow, grabbed
some towels while spitting curses at his soft brown
head. Dasi panted with exhaustion, his sleepy eyes
fluttered against the sounds of scrubbing. She was
crying, but less and less as she found her words.
Margare t Sp i lman

63

She missed him terribly at work, and one of her clients

did the funniest thing. They will learn to live like this,
better than before. Each of them as they always were.
They will have to buy a new couch, but the loss is not
so great as the gain.

64

EEEE

S W I M M IN

EEEEEEEE

G IN T H E D A R K

I always wanted to write a book. As a sophomore

journalism student I decided and declared I would not
write my first book until it flowed unstoppably out
of me. I foolishly thought the words would come like
a force of nature, begging me to write them down in
perfect form and order, practically arresting me from
the rest of my obligations and consuming me day and
night. I imagined, of course, that it would be brilliant
and perfect and sought after and widely praised.
As most writers and artists know, creativity doesnt
work quite like that. The structure and discipline of
the practice does need regular cultivation. But I did
have the bit about flow right. I wrote The Other Side
of the River in pieces over a three year period that
spanned two masters degrees. I had no idea it was a
book or even that the sections went together at first; I
just kept wanting to write about rivers and using water
as a metaphor for psychological inquiry. I discovered I
had a book in me when I found myself unexpectedly
pregnant (best surprise of my life, btw) at the age of
twenty-nine. And thats when the rushing currents
stirred within me. I finally had the mother of all
deadlines, and a very concrete due date. And so I
65

began the practice of swimming in the dark.

Life gifts us each with at least one moment when resistance
is pointless. We spend years in the comfort of the shore,
fooling ourselves with elaborate illusions of control and
consistency. We find routine and false security in jobs,
sidewalks, air conditioning, bills, and bank accounts, and
this life feels more real (and more convenient) than the
wild of the rich green forest full of biting insects, rolling
thunderstorms that ruin our picnics, bitter cold nights, and
prowling panthers.
When the monotony of predictability penetrates all the
way into our bones, we hear the wild calling, and we drive
down to the ocean, but we sit in the car and watch the sun
set through the windshield. We flock to the lake, but we
sunbathe on a chair and cover our bodies with sunscreen.
We walk to the river, but we stay affixed to our smartphones
to capture the memories. We are called by the wild, but we
resist full engagement.
We have an innate sense that the place where land meets
water is a liminal space, a space with a personality and an
agenda of her own. She acts as a gatekeeper between the
surface layers of awareness and the less traversed depths
of our individual psyches. It is she who chooses when and
how and why to open that carefully guarded threshold. If
we spend enough time at the edge of the water, she will
consider this an invitation to splay open our souls, and we
will eventually have to confront the unseen depths of our
watery past.
66

There may be any number of strange, alien looking

creatures down there in our subconscious, but how can
we know what is there if weve never left the safety of the
shore? We fool ourselves into believing the sand, the surface,
and the sunshine is all there is, while hidden beliefs, lies we
keep from ourselves, ancient memories of churning oceans,
lightless caves and moonless skies are suppressed and
pushed deeper and deeper into the subconscious.
But life promises this: that moment when resistance is futile
will come. The fluid parts of our souls pull us into chaos,
pushing us to look at all weve avoided, tossing us unwilling
into waves of uncertainty and currents of dramatic change.
Life keeps her promise. And when she calls you, you must
learn to swim in the dark mystery of possibility.
Berkeley Summer, 2014
Stars hang low in the moonless sky. A river parts the tall,
looming trees on either side of her wide banks. I stand at the
edge and watch as the water laps gently closer to me, and
then further from me, and back again. Without meaning
to do so, my feet move into the surprisingly warm water. I
relax. I walk in a straight line into the water until my feet
no longer feel the safety of earth beneath them I hesitate
and resist floating before I swim.
I stop with my eyes just over the water line, like an alligator.
From this perspective, the land appears to float like an
island moving toward me. Water droplets decorate my
lashes like jewels of light, and the waters surface glistens
Ei la Carri co

67

like moonlight on an eerie luminous black snow. It is surreal;

it is beautiful.
But the joy is shortlived as I feel the immensity of the liquid
substance surround me. I clench my fists at the thought of
the various vicious creatures that may lurk below. I feel a
flash of a scaly tail brush past my calf beneath. Im cold and
tightening, but before I can turn back to the shore the water
pulls me toward her center. My feet leave the sand, and I
have to swim or drown. This is my death. Im merging with
a shapeless form of darkness.
As I prepare to meet my end, a panther appears in front of me.
She looks back at me over her shoulder and swims ahead. I
try to breathe and follow between the little waves she makes
behind her, like lines on the edge of a page of parchment
paper. The current resists me. Im heavy and struggling, I
lose sight of the panther and then find her again. Water
jumps into my eyes and floods my nostrils, stinging. I look
up and notice the stars dim as the sky lightens.
And then I am awake.
Today, with this pen in my hand, it is as if the emotions can
flow easily downhill from my chest along the veins in my
shoulders and past my wrists into my fingertips. The result
is visible, the words appear between the lines on a piece
of paper I can hold. The ink creates something tangible
and lasting out of the ineffable experiences of my body.
Those same emotions often refuse to flow upstream into the
narrow channel of my throat to become spoken words, and
68

even then sound vibrations dissolve in the air much more

quickly than ink on the page. The lines on this page act as
the banks for a river, providing structure so the words can
flow.
I peek around the other side of a mass of faceless fear to find
curiosity. This is the current of possibility. The intersections
of inner and outer landscapes merge. I am the river, I am the
sand. Articulating these grooves, these patterns of memory
that crisscross across my body and overflow through my
fingers is how I learn to put down roots, to leave marks in
the sand, to feel my way across a river in the dark.

Ei la Carri co

69

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