Reuban
Letter from the Editor
For the second time, our No Theme theme generated one anyway. We found consistent threads of time within each piece. We saw the progress and regress of living. We felt all and none while sitting on a back porch wrapped in a thick, cozy blanket holding a hot cup of coffee watching the leaves fall.
We begin in childhood, the birthplace of our formative years. The time before the chaos that is our teens. Years of uncertainty, explosive emotions, and find the love we thing will last. And then we enter adulthood for real and ask ourselves why did we want this when we kids. We thought because we did chores and listened to Simple Plan, we could handle the responsibitly of monthly bills, having a job, and pretending a social life exists. Let’s not leave out the absolute soul annihilating years of learning to love ourselves and prioritize what makes us smile. By now, there’s an acceptance to where we’re at. We’re wizened a bit with two feet planted decently firmly on the ground. There’s a confidence in our fingers now, conviction to our scroll. Working for an attainable goal, celebrating what’s worth it and turning away from all the red flags. Because once we finally knock on Death’s door, we’re gonna be damn sure life wasn’t wasted.
*winks*
A Poem in Three Acts
Désirée Jung
Stage 1 - Your Early Years
Golem
by Betty Stanton
I decorate my walls with drawings of him pieced together with mud and metal and bone, small plump fingers spreading waxy colors across dozens of pages torn from school notebooks. My father tells me the story – Prague at Easter, a priest turns Christians against Jews, the Rabbis make a choice, they learn —
to bring him to life,
to shape him from soil, like Adam, into the shape of a man,
to dance for him, breathe the name of God into his skin,
to tattoo emet¹, truth, into the muddy flesh of his forehead
to write God’s secret name on thick paper and force it, rough,
under his unfinished tongue.
My father watches from the corner of every drawing as he rampages – rises like smoke over bricked chimneys as he is killed. When we sit shiva, my mother and I drape every sheet we own over the large mirrors he hated, cry in dirty clothes. Later we will leave stones across his headstone, bind him into beit olam² –
to wait for God. Stones last, solid as memory, they do not
die. In every story, when his work is done, they must ink
met³, death, across his skin.
¹ truth
² house of eternity
³ death
Cycle
by Kelynen Bell
Aether∫Earth Creation (Beneath my palms lies power untamed.)exploitation
+C
Aether∫Earth Continue (Fflowing through my veins is gold to swim freely.)quit
+C
Aether∫Earth Collect (Bmemories overhaul peace, the comfort is suddenly distant.)hoard
+C
Aether∫Earth Chain (my eyes stifle in the darkness, blinding the innocence inside.)resist
+C
Aether∫Earth Clean (I yearn for the rare water to purify the blood on my fingers.)scar
+C
Aether∫Earth Corrupt (Hindsight never washes away thoughts of the previous life.)honesty
+C
Aether∫Earth Consume (My bones fracture. They have forgotten the journey.)liberate
+C
Aether∫Earth Confine (My spirit travels between the stars and cosmos unto Earth)commit
+C
C ∴power, when saturated, unleashes webs of potential upwards
to infinity, neverending but always gluttonous for a second chance.
it crawls
by Cithara Patra
around midnight, its little feet
climb up my back, inch by inch
furry legs brushing my skin
its tiny teeth prick my neck
as i reach behind to smack it away
this little bug that always crawls
nipping away at my arms and legs
tickling the back of my head
it crawls all over me until i reach around
and smack it…
WHACK!
yet it escapes in seconds and won’t return
till the next midnight
Cycle
by Kelynen Bell
Aether∫Earth Creation (Beneath my palms lies power untamed.)exploitation
+C
Aether∫Earth Continue (Fflowing through my veins is gold to swim freely.)quit
+C
Aether∫Earth Collect (Bmemories overhaul peace, the comfort is suddenly distant.)hoard
+C
Aether∫Earth Chain (my eyes stifle in the darkness, blinding the innocence inside.)resist
+C
Aether∫Earth Clean (I yearn for the rare water to purify the blood on my fingers.)scar
+C
Aether∫Earth Corrupt (Hindsight never washes away thoughts of the previous life.)honesty
+C
Aether∫Earth Consume (My bones fracture. They have forgotten the journey.)liberate
+C
Aether∫Earth Confine (My spirit travels between the stars and cosmos unto Earth)commit
+C
C ∴power, when saturated, unleashes webs of potential upwards
to infinity, neverending but always gluttonous for a second chance.
it crawls
by Cithara Patra
around midnight, its little feet
climb up my back, inch by inch
furry legs brushing my skin
its tiny teeth prick my neck
as i reach behind to smack it away
this little bug that always crawls
nipping away at my arms and legs
tickling the back of my head
it crawls all over me until i reach around
and smack it…
WHACK!
yet it escapes in seconds and won’t return
till the next midnight
Stage 2 - Your Adolescent Years
Apache Mare
by Antoni Ooto
Breathing clouds to the warming air,
in the faithful future of all her years;
proud and natural,
present as a boulder in the way of a path.
Chestnut flank pressed against a rising sun
this light, this field—all her own
there is no other place
no other world.
A Certain Softness
by Erin Jamieson
I.
Indelible scars, touched with sunlight: railroad tracks of survival, my arms tell a story of how I fought for my existence.
Startling July heat, a half-melted ice cream sandwich, a park with tree branches that sway in the wind, bending but never breaking, rooted in long winter days, endured for these days of light.
II.
Years of teaching myself to abhor the softness of my belly, no matter how much it shrinks. The process of unlearning isn’t as simple as waking up and deciding to love your body. It’s a series of steps and missteps, shadows and light.
III.
fog on my windshield, remnants of last night as I drive myself across slushy roads, hurrying- all of us hurrying- to erase the days before or render them meaningless, rushing past boutiques with faded for sale signs, past the dollar store selling stale bread, past the fountain where we tossed gummies coins- wishing for success or love, trying to beat the next traffic light, trying to prove our bodies deserve space in this endless cycle of work & paying bills & trying to make things better but not knowing what better means, missing the sounds of spring trying to break through harsh winter
missing our reason for being
alive
Juliet Orders Salmon
by juliet Lockwood
Plant-based. Sustainable. Cruelty-free.The casual exposed brick walled restaurant was one of those places that tried hard to seem casual. Someone had left the wiring unfinished, Edison bulbs dangling from the ceiling and, of course, menus printed on recycled paper (so soft they all but dissolved in your hands). Hudson had chosen it carefully.
Tonight was important as all dates were at the beginning, they were only a few weeks in but this did seem like it could last.
Across the table, Juliet was flipping through her menu.
“Anything look good?” Hudson asked.
“It all looks good,” Juliet said, not looking up. “You?”
“Mushroom risotto,” Hudson said, smiling. “They use nutritional yeast for creaminess instead of dairy.”
“Nice,” she said.
The waiter appeared. Hudson gave his order, already picturing them clinking glasses over matching plant-based meals, a perfect little Instagram post he’d never actually make but would definitely think about.
Then Juliet spoke.
“I’ll have the grilled salmon,” she said.
Hudson was stunned, he was certain he’d hallucinated them.
“What did you say?” Hudson asked, blinking.
“Salmon.” Juliet smiled at the waiter.
The waiter scribbled on his pad and walked away, oblivious to the bomb that had just detonated at the table.
Hudson glared at Juliet. “You ordered fish.”
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“Why?”
“Because I like it.”
Hudson’s lip began to quiver followed by his eyes filled with tears.
“Hudson, what’s wrong?”
“They are social. They have friends. They swim together. Fish feel things! ”
Other diners glanced over.
Hudson sobbed louder, “Juliet, I thought you believed in ethical consumption!”
“Hudson, are you crying about fish?” she asked.
“You’re not vegan.”
“Not totally.”
“Either you are or you’re not.”
“Then I guess I’m not. Always.”
“You guess?” Hudson asked. “Are you going to consume an animal in front of me or not?”
“You don’t have to put it like that. ”
“What are you? What do you believe in? I’ve never seen you do anything like this before.”
“Usually, I eat vegan, but every now and then I don’t.”
“There is no such thing as a half vegan. Are you going to change your order or not?” he asked sharp and jagged. Hot tears slid down his cheeks.
“Hudson, you’re crying –”
“I know I am, this is worth crying about. I thought – you had me believing. You have to change your order or are you going to eat a corpse? They have choices, Juliet, you don’t have to order mushroom risotto like me. They have roasted cauliflower steak.”
“Hudson, I–” she began.
Just then the waiter came back not just with their two plates where steam curled but with their moment of truth.
Who did you give your heart to?
Stage 3 - Your maturing years
Practicing Seconds
by Sara Stegen
Silence gets easier
on day two – on the second
Ticking hours
Practice makes perfect
You lose the sharpest pain
It’s like the second birth
The second loss.
On the second day
Silence gets easier
On day two
I can tell you
all – but will it matter
that I miss you.
But the telling does not change
an itty-bitty thing
Silence is like forever
Is a double rainbow ring
I’m wearing silence
Finding peace within.
I am practicing seconds.
What will be your legacy?
Stage 4 - Your Elder years
Waiting for the band to start
by SHerry Shahan
A daytime moon cups my asymmetrical spine.
Sequins needle bones strung together with shoelaces.
Veins bubble up for no reason, reminding me of baby
frogs mashed by a steamroller.
I’m a bouquet of puckered crepe-paper, enhancing
the palette of parties in any season.
Yesterday, I paid for my first-ever massage supine in a
spiritual trance beneath kerosene green mire.
Today, I write a love letter in erasable ink just in case
his letters are written in invisible ink.
We used to dance naked under the street lamp.
Just in case I pour another glass of Gallo
wondering if it will be my last.
I’ve reached a certain age and will not raise my voice against it.
Odds are I never should have lasted this long.
Spitting images
by James Penha
When I was a youngster in New York in the 1950s, ornate cuspidors hung from the facades of handsome buildings along fashionable avenues. But my mother advised me never to use them, never to spit at all. “A disgusting habit,” she said. And although as I matured, I ignored many habits (mostly sexual) my mother had declared to be “disgusting,” her rule against spitting settled in me. I never spat — not even the shells of sunflower seeds which I would remove from my mouth with my fingers after cracking them open.
I couldn’t spit if I wanted to. I didn’t even know how to do it as I realized recently when I was hospitalized with pneumonia.
My doctor asked me to deposit a sample of slobber in a cup for laboratory analysis. I tried, but the cup remained dry or merely salivated. The doctor persisted in his request, and so I turned to the internet to research how to expel mucus via deep coughing. The directions were clear and useless. Not till my husband said, you have to growl the stuff out of your throat and into your mouth, did I recall the gruff sound my brother, never fearful of seeming disgusting, would make when he would “hock a loogie.” I tried to imitate that sound and suddenly my mouth was full. “Now lock your throat like you’re gargling … and pretend you are getting rid of mouthwash into that damn cup.” Yes, like gargling! Spitting out mouthwash!
Bring on those specimen cups, Doc. Sorry, Mom.
SAD (Seasonal Affect Disorder)
by Sherry Shahan
the calendar’s voice is dark / even brine salt is gray / an endless hourglass / gray goes black / it still surprises me / sneaks up on me / Time to turn the clocks back! / restlessness creeps in on a drunken moon / my vinyl blinds won’t lie flat / the grimy strings, a midnight noose / who makes up names for all the babies anyway?
i trip on an extension cord / sink into every stain / a million exclamation points pierce my skin / feelings bleed out / my pills run out / i string despondent bras over a mirror / crawl into an empty space / swallow an invisible blanket / wait for mermaids to sing
i’m not thinking a damn thing / but go mad when my rind splits open / ornaments of a broken
life / i count backwards / wait for the moon to sober up / even the clock won’t talk to me / can a lizard grow back from a single cell?
i remember floating on the beach under rays of light / a lover’s hand in my pocket, melting
loneliness / when i looked good photographed naked / when i remembered my name / the sun must be a lonely star
i’m out of wine again retreat resign resolve escape in my nightie to kiss the
cold sidewalk open my mouth like a goldfish waiting to be found.