California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Sein, Perry

176 
Cyclical 
Faded Burmese writings 
on old black leather thongs 
rest against grey .. white stucco walls 
wet and twisted 
Perry Sein 
IDhite rain turned in hail with a moment's notice 
pounds the corrugated grey .. speckled roofs 
double .. fisted. My grandparents' house 
endures under fervent rhythm of rain 
like tight .. leathered wooden drums being beaten 
in wild ecstasy with thick brown callused fingers. 
Lightning sliced black pent .. up skies 
thunder followed close by. 
Scentless short white candle flicks off 
the cool rushing breeze 
with dancing yellow light 
and dared us to catch the flowing wax. 
with our fingers or choose 
Poe or Arthur Conan Doyle 
from our old brown RCA 
radio "broadcasting live from B BC" 
which was equally painful 
for my two sisters and l. 
4lass .. less wooden window stares down blue skies 
and bright sunlight invites the rain in. 
A Chinese family lived 6 inches above 
the trash .. filled alley 
1 watched as they tried in vain 
to hide from rain like ants 
scurrying into their holes 
cold water danced in deep frying pans 
and muddy alley turned into a filthy river. 
IDe owned lumber store 
woods gathered from deep deep emerald 
iungles of Burma 
drifted down lrrawady River 
The Northridae Review 
Sein 177 
toward Indian Ocean 
MY grandfather lived and worked 
l]}ith his fearless devoted crew: 
Illalaria, tigers, pl]thons and starvation. 
One night thel] made fire to cook 
l]}hatever thel] caught from the woods 
but when the ground shook thelJ ran 
in all different directions 
only to find that thelJ were sitting 
on a snake. 
dinner that night was wet earth 
served on biHer cold fingers 
sprinkled with dreams 
for a beHer tomorrow. 
The next morning thelJ saw 
a brown .. spoHed calf 
being eaten alive 
by the same hunqrl] pl]thon 
taking his sweet time 
with his el]es rolled back 
for the state we owed nothing 
for the people that turned against each other 
1 stood there frozen 
in tnlJ wet wom .. in thongs 
holding up both tnl] arms 
to catch rnlJ grandfather's big broken heart 
but his tears snaked through his jungle .. worn 
cheeks 
and dripped down on rnlJ head 
like the rain that drip for dal]S 
after the storm. 
mother cow watched from a safe helpless distant. 
Our lumber store was alwalJS cool inside 
sawdust wiggles on the floor 
and the smell of wet teak and jasmine 
danced together in the air. 
'But one dalJ thelJ carne 
in old arrnlJ trucks, uniforms and rented guns 
stuffed like pigs on their walJ 
lo a slaughter house. 
'But it was us that thelJ carne to slaughter 
ordering us to surrender our vef1J souls: 
lumber, rice, jasmine and even rain 
"in the name of State and Public and such" 
Tbe Northridge Review 


English

Cyclical

Arbor Karnes, Joy

206 
Li-Young Lee Reading, 1995 
Joy Arbor Karnes 
1 am a spot of darkness 
that makes Lee think 
he's alone, writing for the invisible 
audience. He talks of the shapes, 
the hierarchies of love. He reads 
a poem about stroking a woman's hair .. 
hair of human musk. 
'Your hair smells like summer, fresh .. cut 
grass. 1 can smell it in the dark, 
and again, 1 am speaking 
to lJOU in mlJ head, carrlJing lJOU with me, 
explaining the garbage of m1J life, 
as if a moment without lJOU is belra1Jal. 
All mlJ poems are addressed to lJOU, 
wrapped as gifts. 1 am a cherrlJ 
to roll over lJOur tongue. 
Swallow me as I've dreamt lJOU would. 
T e Nortbrid e Review 


Li-Young Lee Reading, 1995

Frixione, Alexis

NVWVS (Unrelated 1)

Corbett, Jocelyn

Swim to Salvation

Figueroa, Rebecca

Rebecca Figueroa 
Bloodline 
Of the half dozen times 
my mother saw her father 
one was just after my birth, 
when he drove out from New Mexico 
to my parents' apartment 
in West L.A., held me briefly 
and commented on my fairness: 
my glassy eyes; translucence 
of my bluepink skin. He was 
dark himself, though his mother, 
Cuca, was fair, almost blond, 
with the broad facial planes of the Nordic-
the same early fairness my mother had 
as a very young child, 
her hair a surprise 
of yellow corn mas a, 
the same early fairness 
I alone among four siblings 
possessed; that vein of golden ore 
ran seldom but deep through the female family, but time 
would mine it out. Unlike Cuca 
Mom darkened as she aged, 
hair and eyes 
contusing purpleblack, 
the color of dried blue corn, 
and I wonder now just how awkward 
it was, that moment 
in the tiny apartment when 
her unfamiliar father 
held her unfamiliar newborn, her head 
now gleaming dark as his, both blueblack as scabs 
with mine, soft and pink, 
bob-and-weaving 
between them. Mom tells me she 
hemorrhaged that night, 
and I can see the red drops 
14 
run down her legs: bloodflower seeds 
awakened by oxygen 
as the blue wound reopened. 
Charlotte 
Hydrostone Sculpture 
By Laura Ann Chiodini 
Rebecca Figueroa 
15 


Bloodline

Maclean, Ian

38 
No Parking Any Time 
Photograph 
By Ian Maclean 


No Parking Any Time Photograph

Rabins, Alicia

Alicia Rabins 
Late Summer Sonnets 
I. Dinner 
A baked potato cooling on my plate. 
Outside, cricketsongs and birdsongs running. 
In August it is difficult to eat 
With taste already full of summer's honey. 
I push up from the table towards the screen 
Door and walk through to the green-floored porch 
To wonder what the end of summer means 
When I am still nineteen in a striped shirt. 
Just short of the dining room lamp's soft reach, 
The old black walnut tree ruffles and cracks 
With hanging wet; this evening it will rain 
On the gypsy moths' webbed triangular sacs. 
My mother calls me in for desert: blackberries 
In a white bowl, freshly washed and glistening. 
II. Sheets 
The clothesline-tied from porch-post to porch-post 
To blunt nail in the brick wall of my house-
Is punctuated every couple of feet 
By clothespins like primitive wooden beaks 
Of sharp and foreign birds, sequined, extinct. 
When my mother walks her hands along the line, 
Hanging sheets, she bites these pins between her teeth. 
The linens are my sisters', hers, and mine. 
Sometimes she whines that we don't hold our own. 
But housework is her province; we disdain 
Meticulousness, order, gloss and shine. 
If it were up to us, we'd let it go, 
All of it. Weeds would overtake the yard, 
And sheets, draped in the living room to dry. 
69 


Late Summer Sonnets

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