A Woman Who Watches

by Jill Chan

I am not a bad person. I'm like anyone else. In fact, I can be weak and passionate. When I was younger, I was regarded as someone with a penchant for turning things over—upsetting a table or a house. But I am normal. I am not boring though I find strength, the kind that pushes people away, the kind that holds on to weakness like something opposite yet determined—I find it terrifying. I find what I have terrifying.

She was a beautiful woman. I don't argue with that. I welcome it.

The first time I met her, she was laughing at something with a force so intense and relentless, she was dying like I was bemused with her ability to be there, holding my attention like that.

I don't know why but I intently watched her then like someone who had seen something strange yet satisfying.

She was about my age though infinitely wiser, more in touch with the world. My world was closed in like a house. Boring, you could say.

And she enlivened the room like light that fell through the curtains. I hesitated to answer when she asked me, 'Are you laughing, too?'

'No, but I enjoy watching you laugh.'

She cocked her head to her right and said, 'A woman who watches. How interesting.'

Then I kept quiet after that. As everything fell quiet after a thunderstorm. As only she could allow.

I was married by then and pregnant. My husband was away working. In a few months, our first child, Mary, would be born. And made our family all the more decent and satisfied with decency.

The woman who had just made my acquaintance was married to my husband's boss. As I found out later. He was in the media business. My husband was an accountant at one of his businesses. I was a photographer in my father's shop.

After Mary was born, I'd spend all the time at home taking care of her. I had to stop work and my father hired another photographer to fill in.

I didn't see the woman again for awhile. She had remained a figure forever laughing in my mind, a delightful distraction from all the busy work at home. The duties and cares of motherhood.

But one time, I came across her at the park. She was sitting on a bench watching people pass by, seemingly careless but strangely occupied.

She said, 'Hi. I remember you. How are you?'

'I'm fine. I'm just having a minute away from my baby, trying to keep my sanity.'

She smiled and nodded.

I detected something sad in her look. Her hand was absentmindedly touching a button on her coat.

She suddenly said, 'How's your husband?'

'He's good. Working.'

This time she didn't nod but merely smiled.

It seemed to me she spent a lot of her time asking questions which called for trivial answers. But she said then, 'Life is strange, isn't it? You want something, then you have it. Then you want it more and more. And pretty soon...' she stopped and looked away.

I could not see but I thought she must've been moved by something none of us could change. Devastation. Desperation.

When she looked at me again, her eyes were red but she was not crying. Only angry, as far as I could tell.

'I'm sorry. I must be going. Hey, how about you come to my house sometime. Hmmm? Well, I'm not doing anything. And you must want some company sometime, nursing your baby.'

'It's good of you to ask. Sure. Here's my number.'

Luckily, I found a piece of paper in my purse.

When she said goodbye, she laughed that laugh again, seeming now another person, another face.

I never heard from her again after that. My husband said that she split up with her husband and moved to another city.

How the city moved as if dangerous, as if alive in some way yet dead in countless others.

After Mary grew up and started going to school, I went back to my father's shop, taking photographs of people I'd never meet again. I still do this.

How I watch their faces like a lens. And capture something of theirs they'll never have again in quite the same way, at quite the same time.

Some day we'll stay the same in our minds. But now, I am reminded of how the table is sturdy. How it holds a coffee table book. A glass of wine.

I am tempted to turn the table over. In my mind, I do it a hundred times a day. Until the table is sturdier for my moving it. Or my attempt at moving it.

A woman who watches.

I have been known as a good photographer. One who brings out the inner stillness of the subject. One who makes people sit and view themselves as subjects of the room at least. They are gods and goddesses in that second when the camera clicks, when I tell them to smile and be themselves. They seem to be happy. To be there in their own skin. To smile at the stranger in themselves. And hopefully occupy their own happiness.

I see the woman in every one of my subjects. She was the most beautiful by far. Even if I never took her picture.

I would've loved it—taking her photograph. She was a natural. Her smile distant yet endearing.

A woman who watches.

I am incredibly distant now from all my subjects.

I remember the last look on her face. She looked once behind her after she had stood up and walked away. As if suddenly terrified of closeness yet not getting enough of it.

There, I was not myself enough.

I could've said something which meant something else. Instead, I was the dumb one. The meek one behind the camera where no view could be held.

Ancient Papyrus, Translated

by John S. Fields

Letter to Mark

I lay against the trunk of an olive tree. Its strong branches reach to God, while the arms that once held love now hold a robe with the scent of honey.

The costs of sacrifice…Peter left a family and the life of a fisherman to follow Jesus. And the Master says you will be persecuted by pagans for teaching the word. You may ask what have I sacrificed?

The Master confided to you and trusted you. Do you know the nature and depth of our love? It was the Master who wished I inform Caiaphas. And I have sacrificed a love as sanctified as that of any husband and wife.

I will not be martyred. I will be vilified as the betrayer. Before I play the role cast by our Father, I have a humble request of you…Tell Mary I loved Jesus with a pure heart.

Judas

APACHE TRAIL(Arizona SR 88)

by Ben Rasnic

Trails of smoke streak the cobalt sky,
hang like wreathes
over Superstition Mountain.

Arizona sun buckles unpaved pathways.
Scattered bones of lost souls
offer white line hi-way markings.

Twisted rock formations
and colonies of cacti tower
above multi-colored wildflowers.

RVs & SUVs cling to hairpin
turns & winding switchbacks,
brakes screeching like dry chalk
against a classroom blackboard.

Black vultures huddle
over anonymous roadkill;
pick at the skeletal remains,

dodging slow motion steel bullets
shimmering in the Arizona sun.

in need of no title

by Marcia Arrieta

contrast clarity or the alchemist who walks across the branch—
into a tavern of light. "don't be obtuse," he advises.

i am a white heron in summer.
all is obtuse.

arrows point in different directions.
we need more beer. clearly.

adjunct water. the boat to be piloted through the sand. listen; compose
the sky as idea.

indifferent the approach. the stanzas vary in lines. preface the imagination.
everyone feels sadness. there is no contingency.

the attempt to control will shatter. design the spaces.
semi-colon. colon.

triangle. square.
the leucadian shore. the montana wilderness.

hieroglyphic independence. invent immediate.

snowflake. sun. air.

Red Sky Mine

by Devlin De La Chapa

Snakes hang dry
pink petals bloom

Sun kisses dirt
water runs green

Cactus saps
trees loose leaves

Dead and dying
blazing and bursting

Girls is the day
under boys are the night

Red sky mine,
burns

Helen Whispers in My Dreams

by Jason E. Hodges

As I drift to sleep I free fall into this strange new land
A land where you’ve been for what seems like a thousand centuries
A land where the air is clean and dry and Helen still whispers in the soft sea breeze
Where the moon bleeds orange and red with love over the city of Troy
Love of a woman that brought the mighty ships so long ago
Ships filled with men ready to fight
To bring her back
Now all is caught between legends and dreams
At least dreams for me, for somehow I’m here with you
Yes, I know I have to be dreaming for Helen seems to be with us now
Walking the shoreline
As graceful as swans gliding through mirrored lake tops of reflection
A shoreline that’s gently touched by what looks to be the bluest of waves
Making our way through the cobblestone streets and cracked marble of time
Then the dream shifts like a blink in the eye of time
Like a stage scene set perfectly with x-marks waiting to place
And now it’s just you and I
Talking in a café as a yacht drifts in the distance
For the ocean is so close we can taste its thick salt in the air
Suddenly we’re on the shoreline of the great Mediterranean
With its water crystal like clear
Polished rocks line the beach as far as the eye can see
So beautiful and smooth like jewels in our hands they sit
Like pieces of time they litter our walkway as Helen once more ushers us into her world
For we now are her chunks of marble sculpted in her on special way
A way of beauty far beyond most comprehension
So bright, she easily guides our way through the darkest obsidian night
Then finally I wake to the last thoughts I remember
You and the whispers of Helen

SAPPHO IN THE KITCHEN

by Kallima Hamilton

Repetition and toil, slaves enough
but the woman in me grows fond of dishes
and something central

sends me back into baking and brooms
in this room lit with sun and cinnamon.

A blue fire burns at the core of me,
each poem of love buffed over sudsy water.
Too often I dream of your ankles.

The soufflé sinks. Still, I go on
with my island view dotted by dolphins.

The universe curves like a green slice of melon.
We observe our need to nest

and nourish. Let me rub sunflower oil
on your belly, give you tonic juiced with lime.

All I can do is recite the syllables of your name,
become entangled in the blonde glass of your wild hair.

This wood table anchors me with roses and grape hyacinth,
these words become the fresh bread of our long afternoons.

Soon, sundown will turn in its coppery shadows
and my ache, like a thing possessed, will wander for its form
until you return with apricots, sweet plums.

Tree

by Danny P. Barbare

Roots, trees  stripped
Of their bark, limbs, no leaves,
No twigs, no shade, no flowers,
Fallen trunk, sawdust,  sap
Splinters, kindling, firewood,
Knots, logs, quarters, smoke,
Smell, crackle, and ash.

THE WINNER LOSES ALL

by Randall Rogers

THE WINDS
OF YESTERDAY
BLEW
BITTER.
HIS PAST
WAS
CATCHING UP.
BEST THE TIME
FOR DYING
IS SOON
HE’D SAY.

TIME
IS A
PRINCESS.
NEVER
A QUEEN.

LIVING LIFE
ROUGH
YOU KNOW
HEROIN
METH
NEVER A
GIRLFRIEND
CRIED THE DAY
GARY COLEMAN DIED
IS NOTHING
RATHER
THAN
SOMETHING
AND IT
COULD HAPPEN
TO YOU.
OR NOT.
BINARY BRAIN.

I SEEN SO MANY
STRANG THINGS
IN THIS WORLD
THIS LIFE
WEIRD SHIT
NO SEEMINGLY EXPLA-CAUSATION
BET YOU HAVE ALL TOO.
WE JUST
DON’T TALK
‘BOUT JOE’S
BLOWING
HIS HEAD
OFF
SHOTGUN BARREL
O WHAT LEFT OF HIS
HEAD
IN THE MOUTH WE
ALL SUPPOSED
TRIGGER
CAUGHT ON HIS TOE.
WEIRD SHIT LIKE
‘’WHY’’, JOE?
MUCH LESS
THAN WE TALK
ABOUT
THE DRUG
SHIT,
AND
THAT WE
ALL
MASTURBATE,
THAT IS,
IF WE STILL CAN.
ALL I GOTTA
SAY
IS
FUCK YOU WORLD
WHO LOVES YOU. BABY?

ARROGANT BASTARD

I ALWAYS SAY
AN INTELLIGENT
PERSON
WILL
SEE THAT
QUALITY
IN ME.
AND NOT BE JEALOUS.

Petals

by Alison L. Peoples

cherry blossom tears
filled the ocean
blue
surging in pain
across the Ring of Fire
our shore
your shore
connected with tears
we see you
finally
amidst the Imperial tide.

the fall

by Manisha Anand

put my sins out
with your cigarette,
i said, i need a saviour
on my cross tonight.
burn me,
sear my eyelids,
make me blind,
make me see.

mesmerized,
i pick my way
through the debris,
in the red-hot glow
of flickering tongues
and smouldering stones.
smoke fills my lungs,
but your hair
is a handful of fire
and i find i can't
let go.

i am ablaze,
running on
yesterday's time.
beyond reason,
past caring,
and you,
you try to douse
this pyre
with gasoline.

standing under
poison trees,
flames still licking at
my throat,
i watch them
throw their bouquets,
as you try and nail
your feet
to the ground.

your shoes are
stained with ashes,
old whispers,
silent screams,
and as the hammer
thuds on, i know
that this
will leave a scar.

it was just a place

by John Grochalski

i have walked passed it
nearly every day
since the new york city board of health
slapped a sticker on the place
and shut the joint down
touched the sticky metal of the door handle
looked inside the dusty window
with the unplugged beer signs
hoping for a sign of life
but the old pint glasses are still on the bar
half-filled the way that they were
when the company man came by
and did his civic duty by kicking everyone out
bottles of alcohol are now out on the bar
sitting next to cardboard boxes
the booze glittering in the sunlight
like a stained glass window
waiting to be packed away
one of the television sets are down
the pictures of ireland are off the wall
and the jukebox is black
i think of nights of staggering desperation
of pointless joy and stunted conversation formed
in the afterglow of whiskey shots
and beer draft illuminations
i think of high drama on a sunday afternoon
johnnie walker infidelities
fueled by the futility of this american life
i think of nowhere else to go but here
and i am as sad as i’ve been in a long time
these people watching me stare at this dilapidated shack
the ugly ones walking along the street
with ice cream cones and yapping dogs
them and everyone else
the ones who are glad to see this place gone
to them it was just a glowing nuisance
a festering hole in the wall
that kept its lights on year round
to them it was just a place
but to me, it was a gershwin tune
paris in the spring
the sistine chapel
with little michelango scribbles
splattered on the ceiling.