Foreword: Moving On

Moving On

When excited about a piece of writing, I often sense a largeness to it that exceeds what I first fully understand. As an editor, I’ve had that experience too often to remember. I love something and then struggle to articulate why, and it may take me a while to do so with any certainty. Perhaps it comes from rightness of form and richness of theme, including a necessary ambiguity in the subject. I may not fully get it at first because often the best writing is, in fact ,wonderfully complicated, both in what it is about and sometimes in the way it’s done. Literature has an almost biological element: its DNA shows similarities to past writing as well as newness and variance. It carries a suitcase or wears at least some of its clothes from the past. It doesn’t simplify life but sees and shows its messiness. This is shown in much of this issue, with the theme of moving on while at the same time still in ways still carrying the past.

4 Poems by Tiana Clark

Self-Portrait at Divorce

Tiana Clark

After reading Stag’s Leap again and finally knowing

what the hell Sharon Olds was writing about


The day my husband left

I accidentally set off the house alarm

and the dog finally curled into my chest

like a warm croissant of cream fur and you

had replaced the trash bag for the last time

and the recycling and I walked into

your office and I wept and wept inside

your pillow on our bed (whoops) I mean my bed

a California king our biggest bed yet because

we wanted space for our long bodies to stretch

and room the for the dog to splay and I put water

in the dog bowl and I told myself that I had to remember

to do that because you had always done that simple task

On Defeat and Diego

On Defeat and Diego

Alexander Ramirez

Once, while I was training at the Police Athletic League in Oak Park, Diego “Chico” Corrales walked into the gym holding a trophy half his size. He was a local amateur standout, a home-grown offensive dynamo poised to terrorize the professional ranks in another year or two. My dad followed his career in the newspaper, so I’d been told about his reputation as a heavy-handed bogeyman. I watched Diego balance the trophy against his hip. He was still a teenager then; I was seven years old.

The Body Was There

The Body Was There

Shakarean Hutchinson

Six months later she was pregnant. The curves of her hips opened up; her breast grew heavy. The blue cotton dress, the dye fading into something lighter and unhappy, whispered the secrets of her changing body to those who made it their business to know what was happening with the women on Bilkens Farm.

Patty was one of those women. She’d been born on Bilkens Farm sometime during the 1820s. when Bilkens’s father still ran the plantation. Her weathered face showed the signs of years of rice work, and her hands were nearly permanently callused and chafed. She kept a watch on all the young girls, particularly those who were married off on Marriage Day. During the day, as she directed the cutting of the rice stalks into large piles waiting to be stripped of their grains, she studied all the women slaves that came into her view. Young girl. Teenaged girl. Woman. After a woman’s gray hair grew in and the lines in her face settled deep into her face, Patty knew she could stop watching them. But until that point, Patty diligently monitored the women’s midsections for any signs of growth, their swollen feet. She even sniffed around the fields and the cabins at night for the acidic smell of bile held in the heated South Carolina air. For Patty, her mission, her main job on Bilkens Farm, was to catch every single pregnancy. She hadn’t missed one yet.


The Burial

The Burial

Samantha Xiao Cody

In the days after Mr. Huang was arrested for killing his son, we began seeing the dog everywhere. The Huang house was swarmed with reporters and curious passersby, but every time we crept near, we were swatted away and scolded for being nosy by one of the lao nai nais who were always standing there, soaking up information like sponges. The Huang house stayed silent, the shutters drawn, but we were sure Mrs. Huang was still inside. “I can’t even imagine,” our mothers whispered, shaking their heads. Some of our mothers, like Eddie’s ma, made food and left it out on the back lawn of the Huang house in the afternoons, and though we never saw Mrs. Huang emerge, the dishes were always back out on the lawn in the morning, empty and clean.




Daphne Kalotay

for Jude


Twilight’s hazy glow, the world covered in gray lint. Viv hailed a ride and set out toward the crumbling edge of town.

Though it was nearly November, leaves still clung to branches, some in the blazing colors of life, most a parched brown. Odd how warm it is, her driver said, as they rose over the bridge that just months ago she would have crossed on her bike. A cluster of figures slipped toward them along the walkway, dressed strangely, like characters in a play. She turned to look, but they were already past.

Fun plans for the evening? her driver asked. The streetlamps weren’t yet lit, and the fading sky looked thick enough to touch.

I’m going to a pig roast.


Poem by V. Penelope Pelizzon

Of Vinegar    Of Pearl    (an excerpt)

V. Penelope Pelizzon


“The elements return to the body of their mother.”  —Paracelsus


Like pulp-and-spittle wasps’ nests

built in their season to last

only until winter, bones

crumble in her as she sits.

She sections the day’s clemen-

cies into mouthfuls, hawks out

any bitter pips, swallows

good pungence with sips of smoke

—Lapsang Souchong or Laphroaig,

depending on the hour—

preferring solitude to

solicitude from the kind,

including her children who

were hard to bear and are hard

now to hear. Nine decades have

drawn her, masterwork of ten-

don and vein illustrating

frailty condensing to one

ferocious node, a will still

refusing to cede. But now?

When the heart no longer turns

the blood’s tide. When fluid pools,

refusing to be sluiced back

into its channels. She’s walked

so far down the strand that seals

barely lift their heads as she

steps over them, returning

finally to her sisters.

She’s up to her knees now in

a flosh of her body’s own

sea-wash. Dying? Or dying-

ish? Is this it? Is it this?


The Past

The Past

Danica Li

My new boyfriend and I have been fighting a lot recently. We’ve only been dating for six months or so, so it’s to be expected, I suppose, that things will come out, aspects of the other’s personality previously concealed or ignored, strange living habits, uncontrollable facial tics, troubled relations with one’s mother, preferences for whole grain mustard or Dijon, etc. I’ve been surprised by the theme of these arguments, although I suppose they aren’t arguments, per se. That would imply that our conversations lack civility, intent facial expressions indicating active listening, measured and thoughtful responses. Still, the fundamental thing about these conversations is that we can’t agree. We start far apart, and after an evening spent going back and forth, nodding thoughtfully at the other’s point of view, presenting our own, invoking our piecemeal knowledge of the relevant fields of academic study—sociology, biology, epistemology, phenomenology, zoology, and all the rest—we always find ourselves farther apart than before.


5 Poems by Nancy Reddy

Spooky Action at a Distance

Nancy Reddy

In the Nashville airport, in gate C-84, in the industrial carpet and molded

plastic seats

where we all wait to be carried elsewhere,


a baby sleeps against his mother’s


chest. His right foot is froglegged up to meet his chest. He’s that new, his body

soft and curled

as if to fit still the small space of the womb.


The universe is thin. Even across this gate—


Oil Town Overture

Town Overture

Dave Zoby

At five AM I smell coffee through the floorboards. Carter only drinks organic. He set up his own kitchenette down there. I hear the clink of his spoon against his ceramic coffee mug. I hear the shower come on, and after the shower, I hear him speaking on his phone to his wife, Jane. It’s still dark outside, and the wind is up. I scatter two scoops of kibble into my dogs’ metal bowls. They knock against me trying to get to their food. I crawl back in bed, hoping Carter will slip out into the frosty Wyoming morning without speaking to me. But it is not to be.

“Hey, man,” he says just outside my bedroom door, “Can you take me over to Miguel’s to drop off my truck?”


“I’d like to get it over there this morning so he can get my brakes done before the weekend.”

Carter is smiling, holding his coffee cup close to his face. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece he picked up from the community college’s annual art sale.

“Yeah, I’ll do it.”

I throw back my sheets and pull on my jeans.