“Process”
Laura Cesarco Eglin
letting the skin heal
is being able to watch time
go by
slowly
the pain of waiting
wondering if it stops
if the horizon means a line
or if that’s simply confusing
distance with hands that don’t
move even after you
shake the dead watch alive
what’s separate looks on
waiting
for me to stop
saying the same
to stop
“Umbilical”
J.P. Infante
1.
You rushed out of school where she waited. You looked up at her and smelled liquor.
As you crossed the street you told her about Mr. Castro and how he threatened to whip any boy who fought in class.
She held your hand and frowned. “I’ll cut him,” she said. Screeching tires stopped everything. The car almost hit you. She yanked your shoulder and yelled, “The light is yellow!” The driver rocked in the car, gripping the steering wheel.
She let go of your shoulder when you reached the sidewalk. Her grip. Your bruise. You weren’t scared of the driver or Mr. Castro but for them.
2.
Before you exited Rikers you got your belongings from the lockers. The bus was packed with mothers, sisters, daughters, little boys, and summer heat. Somebody upset somebody because a seat belonged to someone. The large woman shouted at your mother. Your mother tossed your month old sister at you and faced the large woman’s chin, screaming back louder.
The bus driver pleaded with the women, struggling with the wide steering wheel. You thought the driver would take your mother back to the jail for fighting, but that was only fear. You didn’t fear jail or the large woman, you feared dropping your sister.
3.
This was before your sister, before a lot of things. You lived in an apartment with a woman and her small child. Mice slept under a mountain of toys in the living room. A worm-like tail slipping through action figures, doll hair, and stuffed animals.
You don’t remember the kitchen, the bathroom, or the woman your mother rented from. You remember your small bedroom and blue walls. There was a broken window and a cold radiator by the twin size bed.
Throughout the night you trembled in her arms. In the morning you put your hat, coat, and gloves for school and yet still felt a chill slip through the window cracks inside. You couldn’t tell if you were scared or cold or if there was a difference.
“Gallows Humor”
Vivian Wagner
We’d rented a Ford Flex—
a large, black car that
looked like a hearse—
and took it to visit
my parents’ graves.
Your mother pointed at it
when we got out, said at least
we had the right vehicle.
Galgenhumor, she laughed,
in her native German, and
we laughed with her, because
on that day, the sun shining
warm on our backs, death
a faint rumor, it seemed
the only thing to do.
“Eight Hours”
Lynne Schmidt
By the time we arrive and find the right room,
my aunt estimates that there are eight hours left.
“When it happens,” she says, “you let it happen.”
My mouth forms a line, not trusting words to come.
“Can you handle this?” she asks.
I nod.
I take my seat and evaluate what happens in eight hours—
a car trip from Maine to NYC,
a workday,
a good mountain hike with fresh air.
I was at the mountain yesterday.
Even with the news, I chose to stay,
chose to soak in the warm air over snow-covered grounds as
winter fought spring off just a bit longer.
I considered waiting,
considered staying away,
considered not coming at all.
But I came.
I’m here now.
I sing songs,
Polish butchered on my English tongue.
I want to hold her hand,
but for years I watched the gnarled remains curve into itself,
a tree branch suffocating the trunk.
She is tucked safely under a quilted blanket,
a small bird with delicate bones.
She’d be cold
when she was supposed to be comfortable.
Hours pass.
Family comes in and out.
Another round of morphine, tears, hugs, stories.
It won’t be long now.
It won’t be long now.
A nurse questions if she is holding on
waiting for someone that hasn’t come.
I call my mother,
put her on speakerphone.
She speaks another language fluently.
The only words I translate are
“I love you…I love you.”
and the global language of tears
that form from losing someone you love.
Later, my aunt encourages us to get food,
get rest,
says she’ll call when things change,
because you can only stop conversation so many times
as an exhale slips away,
only to find the one square on the quilt
still moving.
The phone rings in the dark of a hotel room.
“Come quick. It won’t be long now.”
Gather keys, and dogs, and other things,
drive five minutes.
check-in.
And by the time we arrive,
she was gone.
“Contents of a Letter Found on a Stained Bar Napkin”
Jules Archer
You know I think about you often. The way the edge of your coat was caked with mud. Mud that reminded me of chocolate icing, and then I instantly felt stupid for the thought. Because what was going to happen next would be a lot more serious than chocolate cake. You left soggy footprints on the wool rug, and I winced. I winced, and then I ran. At least I tried to. But you already know all this. I don’t know why I’m explaining it to you. You know. I should tell you what you don’t know.
Like when you told me you only wanted money, you promised you wouldn’t hurt me, your throat closed up and your voice cracked. Not the most flattering tell, but that’s when I knew you were a liar. I heard you rummaging through my kitchen drawers looking for a knife.
I knew that when I sat mute and motionless on my couch for two hours you were still in the room with me even though you wanted me to believe you were gone. When I whimpered, you exhaled. I felt your hot breath brush across the back of my neck.
I knew when you closed the bedroom window you had opened to get in that you planned to kill me. You were afraid the neighbors would hear my scream. And it was a signal for me to move.
I knew I’d get out of the handcuffs because I have double-jointed thumbs. Lucky me, right? I waited until you left the room — for a glass of water you said — and fear and adrenaline, like an animal thrashing inside me, took over. You did not see me, even as I passed you in the hall as close as a ghost, and walked right out the front door.