California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

McLaughlin, Dolores

Alvvays on 
Afte rnoon s 
D o l o res Mc La u g h l i n  
Always on afternoons, graham crackers and milk 
at the kitchen table. 
the windows are open 
a spray of water from the sprinklers 
a film of moisture on the window sills. 
always the smell of freshly cut grass 
on Friday afternoons. 
no curtains at these windows 
this alcove in the kitchen where we eat. 
Nothing to hide any part of the yard from us. 
The apple trees sit surrounded 
by flagstone after flagstone. 
It wasn't always like this. 
Every spring the camera and ladder come out 
and every year we sit each on a step 
and have our picture taken. 
Philip is so high that he has a hat of apple blossoms. 
The bird bath is filled and robins and sparrows 
dive in the out. 
Water beads fall from their wings as they flap away. 
3 9  
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
Croquet in the summer heat 
knocking your ball against your opponent's out and away 
little wire hoops stuck in the grass 
tan balls with green, yellow blue and red stripes 
being smacked by tan mallets 
with green, yellow blue and red stripes. 
Autumn and the wind blows 
leaves skim across the yard 
touching down tossed about landing in the corner 
against the white wooden fence. 
Every winter by brother Hugh putting out nuts 
for the squirrels. 
Dark dots ag,ainst the snow 
The bird bath filled with snow and 
our stale bread. 
· 
40 


English

Always on Afternoons

Johnson, Jodi

S e a h o u s es 
� o d i  � o h nson 
She walked after dinner towards the harbor, 
the light of Fame Island lighthouse 
beating like a heart against the slow evening. 
Where the town grew from red stone over the beach 
she saw darkness rising. The houses sank into it 
brick by brick. She imagined the halls inside 
swimming in blue shadow. One at a time 
lights went on in windows. She thought: 
behind one a woman is setting forks 
carefully beside brown plates, in another a man 
sits on a bed, sewing buttons on his shirt. 
As a young girl, she had gone clamdigging, 
hanging a lamp on a pole and standing on her own 
white island. She turned over mud with a pitchfork 
to pluck clams from their safe Jeep. 
Later, the open shells pleased her, 
the pale lining glowing in her hand. She believed then 
that if omeone could force open the tight door in her ribs, 
she would shine too. 
But now, watching the dark pour over the houses, 
she feels it  soak into rooms in her spine-
she is filled with small nights. She knows how difficult it  is 
for people in white windows to know anything of each other, 
in hard-edged light. 
Sudden bright flashes from the lighthouse 
bend briefly over the sea's roof. 
They remind her of lightning. She counts 
the long black pauses. 
58 


Seahouses

Skinner, Brian

T h e N i g ht 
B a s  h e r s 
Br i a n  S ki n ner 
The street hisses 
with the chorus of sprinklers 
incessant. 
Porches sit s ilent, 
lawnchair people 
still or sleeping, 
television whispers seeping 
through aluminum 
screen doors unheard. 
On the parched afternoon 
asphalt the glass 
glistens, skidmarks 
and beer stains fading. 
Sequestered quiet 
behind tight shades, 
they paint 
their faces, polish 
their chains, and wait 
as the day 
is  sucked up 
slowly by shadow. 
9 1  


The Night Bashers

Coleman, Richard

In Th e B us h  
Richard Coleman 
gett ing this funny feel ing that here in the gondwanaland 
here in  the BUSH 
the mayhem and crawl of u rban soot 
here in the place of God 
the l ively whi nes of l ive tunes, the love of simple women 
here in the place where I smoke my pipe and wait for the 
woman who wi l l  never show, the younger vers ion of my d reams, 
who takes apart each phrase and twists it rou nd the seditious 
cock of her chin, the lower bite of her l i p, the pale th in 
palm and f inger run n i ng through BLACK hair; 
the one I wait for and watch pass by in s imple women 
b lue boots and leather air, the crisp rough 
feel o f  her presence, the feel o f  calm 
Bushland about her, the tense-
ness of her expression when she asks me to repeat 
the last ph rase, and again, bites the Lover of her l i p  
t h e  thick bottom, the shaded 
and aghast body found here trapped in th is  young 
Flute, young Rub, here in  the gondwanaland. 
5 


In The Bush

Louapre, Dave

"The Moment"

R. Good, Heidi

The Wo m a n  
Heidi R. Good 
S h e  felt the earth under h e r  feet cold as late n ight damp. 
Her pads were mo ist now. Her  head held down close to the 
ground,  breath ing in the dan kness. Alert to the no ises of 
cricket and the cadence of the wind overhead in  the c loud of 
interlocked branches-tapping, c l ick ing a m i l l ion sticks 
together. 
Someth ing frig hten ing was fol lowing her, beh ind her 
coming the same way. She watched the pine-needled ground 
pass beneath and beh ind her. Out of her amble she broke 
into a lope k ick ing up smal l  sprays of wet earth after each dig 
of  her paw. The trees ran away i n  the opposite d i rection  i n  the 
s ides of her v is ion. And she wondered what they were go ing 
towards back there, afraid as if she were in  the i r  p lace. 
Persp i ring now she hung her tongue out over her teeth, 
fee l i ng  it go cool and cold,  then dry as the wind wagged it. 
Her nose cutt ing th rough the puffs of th in  fog she panted out 
at each footfal l .  I t  was cold. 
The feel ing of rawness that she felt now had beg un early 
in the n ight when the moon had newly soaked through the 
forest and made s i lhouettes of the real th ings there. The 
sound had been close, v ibrating a i r, and it had raised the hair  
a long her neck as invo l untari ly as if it had been a strong, th in 
wind that had b lown the fur up.  I t  had moaned. Some big 
forbidding someth i ng with no control over its agony had 
leaked out over the rocks around, and passed over grub­
laced logs and streamed i nto holes l ike b lood, leav ing the l i fe 
it belonged to and making al l  the th ings it covered sticky with 
itself. She ran afraid,  just ahead of it. 
I n  front of her the woods broke into a meadow and then 
c l imbed into a h igher place-a country where the trees stood 
lonel i er and crooked, and stone g round on ly a l lowed smal l  
grasses through, and rocks were broken. 
There it wou ld  be harder for s omething to catch her, and 
she insti nctively knew th is  thing d id not belong in unfenced 
areas. Approach ing a stone ledge, her haunches bunched 
into muscle and u n ro l led launching her up onto the g ran ite 
shelf. Her  flanks g ri pped t ight and pu l led her over the next 
24 
NOR THRIDGE R E VIEW 
one. Food sounds and smel ls were laying in  the a i r  rem i nd ing 
her  of  the t ime s ince she had last eaten. Yet now h u nger was 
crowded by fear and hunt ing was bad on such a brig ht­
l ighted evening.  
The cry came again just as she  saw the bright bal l loom 
into her eyes. She felt terror wrap her tight and screamed at it 
as her back legs sudden ly and with violence flexed stra ight 
back together and pitched her forward. She col lapsed, 
scraping pebbles as momentum pushed her a yard, and 
fl inched, l i ps pu l led in a snarl, eyes closed, her head scraped 
rock, tearing l ichen and her own fur away, leav ing raw flesh 
there. 
Scrambl ing u p, she f lung her head around in an attempt 
to regain her balance, her shou lders cramping with exertion. 
She could not stand and fe l l  aga in  then and again,  pounding 
the wind out  of  her l u ng s, and she was so scared she tried to 
die and could not, and then tried to deny it a l l ,  knowing f inal ly 
what was happening. The moon was too big she remembered. 
Her legs cou ld not move and were grotesquely bending out 
at the wrong angles and h urting  so bad ly. 
From the sky, moon turned her i nto a shadow and tried its 
best to hide what it was doing. She was stretched and 
changed back, the fur that b lurred her outl i ne tremored 
s l ightly, tautened as it faded. And as her body contorted and 
arched, she became a new prof i le against the n ight, leaving 
her naked and unaccustumably wet with dew and soggy 
moss. 
The moan q uavered again in the midair  of n ig ht. I t was not 
so poignant now as it had been earl ier when her throat had 
ti lted fu l l  back and swallowed a l l  the sadness there, not even 
knowing it was her own. N ow reduced in a shorter neck came 
a wh i m per just for quick ears that did not even care. 
The woman l ifted up on her e lbows, her ha i r  cover ing her 
face. She was muddy and shaking and was a du l l  color in the 
nearing dawn. The moon had gone away, forgetful and 
unfaithful of its own. 
Her hand came up to clear her face. A long f ingered hand 
came u p  to clear her face. A long f ingered hand with scraped 
knuckles, sore looki ng, c lums i ly  combed f ingers through the 
tang led hair, and she turned to stare beh ind her. Back there 
were the fences. 
She was perfect but for her eyes. They were left amber 
and al mond tilted-al l wrong and staring back i nto my own 
eyes. I do not l i ke th is, I am afraid, one m istake here. Round, 
and too many shadows through the pupil. The cold I am 
fee l i ng  now through my sweat is  fear. I wi l l  s lap water over my 
face and onto the m i rror. 
25 
Good/The Woman 
It resides tonight. The moon I mean, in its own cycle. F i rst 
for me, I mustfind my dark glasses. Here they are. O kay, now I 
wi l l  paint my nai ls. O kay now, my hands are a l ittle raw. It is just 
the detergent I washed the d inner d ishes in before d usk last 
night. 
26 


The Woman

Hempel, Wes

El Monte,  Cal iforn ia  
First Place, 1984-1985 Academy of American Poets Competition 
Wes Hempel 
At the Pentecostal church on Arden Drive 
my father moves through the sanctuary 
qu ietly arranging chairs wh i le  I lean 
on the green s i l l  in the Sunday School room 
gaze across ir ises and tal l  grass 
to the parking lot of the Bal l  Cann ing Factory 
that mass of corrugated bui ld ing 
I always thought was abandoned 
That morn ing in  our kitchen a m i l k  bottle 
s l ipped from my mother's grasp 
and shattered on her foot 
a bright flood opened from her instep 
My father carried her to the bathroom 
cleaned and wrapped the cut 
I am talk ing about my father 
the woman in h is arms 
and twenty years in E l  Monte 
Sometimes I th ink  I could get in my car 
and go back to that town 
to the church my grandfather bu i lt 
our  house on Al lgeyer 
the al ley beh ind the d�iry 
where my brother and I p layed bal l 
before he went away 
17 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
I could drive across the rai l road tracks 
by the Coffee Shop on Tyler 
next to Five Points Bowl 
the back to back phone booths 
in front of Arrow Auto Sales 
where a girl in a white d ress walks 
after class with her hand in  mine 
When it begi ns to rain  we dash 
into the booths, cal l  each other u p  
pretend we're secret lovers 
I cou ld follow the concrete curve of the wash 
north to the Pal m  View Trai ler Court 
those sloping vacant fields 
where I walked alone the morn ing after graduation 
and found an abandoned desk on its back 
all the empty drawers stuck out 
among weeds and grass i nto the sky 
1 8  


El Monte, California: First Place, 1984-1985 Academy of American Poets Competition

Jones, Jordan

Distance 
Jordan Jones 
1 .  
You, weaving a boat out o f  reeds 
it is heavy with your longing but strangely buoyant. 
2. 
We give names to the secrets 
that separate us like a sword. 
3. 
If  I shove recollections ahead of me like a prow 
can I cross these dark seas back to you? 
Will I know other women as I began with you 
from the myth outward to the skin? 
50 


Distance

Duke, Judith

Judith Duke 
Flying 
People were deceived, for the most part, by his pla­
cidity. But behind the torpid manner cowered an excit­
able being with a fluttering heart. H e  was such a timid 
boy. Especially in the face of loud urgency or demands. 
Beverly heard on the news h e  couldn't te l l  them h is  
name. 
Donny, scrubbed and serene, waited in his wheelchair, 
which took up the only open patch of kitchen floor and 
barricaded the exit. But the morning sun - the only sun 
to find its way through the maze of neighboring build­
ings- crept through the solitary window with a reminder 
of open skies. From a cage in the corner the zebra finch 
racketed a welcome to the light. Donny rolled his head 
toward the sound. 
At his feet, Beverly said, "Such a handsome birthday­
boy!" H e  seemed almost beautiful with sunshine spil l ing 
a glow across his pall id face and turning his fair hair 
gold. 
She couldn't imagine shutting Donny away from the 
light. It was inconceivable. Others demanded it, how­
ever - first the boy's father and now Eric: it was his motif. 
When he was absent, the refrain vibrated in  her mind in  
connection with Eric. When he was present, the same 
note sounded, tantalizing, whether he spoke it or not and 
despite her efforts not to hear. Eric's easy smi le would dis­
appear, replaced on his smooth face by earnestness. 
''Think of ME," he'd say. He could see nothing in the 
boy. 
Beverly looked u p  from the colorless linoleum. "Today 
is SPECIAL," she informed her son. She was kneeling, 
tying Donny's laces. The white bows drooped against red 
canvas. Six months and still the sneakers were unsullied. 
8 
Judith Duke 
''The SHOES - my God,'' the other mothers in the park 
would say to each other, watching the children scuff and 
tumble and c l imb, "the S H O ES they go through! It's 
impossible to keep a kid in  shoes." And Beverly would 
see the women clustered on the bench nodding wisely 
together, making a wall of their backs. While beside her, 
Donny s l u m ped i n  h i s  chair  and watched the leaf­
shadows sweeping back and forth on the bright grass and 
the pigeons with their heads cocked sideways sidling up 
to the crumbs on the dirt path and the pigeons flashing up 
in graceful panic when he rocked with happiness. 
She and Donny went to the park less and less. 
Beverly sighed and rose wearily to her feet. She drew 
the belt tight around her l imp wrapper. The night had 
been too late again, almost always too late because too 
rare: old Mrs. Karpuzov - Beverly couldn't blame her, it 
wasn't her fault real ly- Mrs. K. was reluctant to sit with 
Donny, to be near him, even when he slept. It  was the 
way people were about the child, they felt caged by 
something shameful. And then to argue again with Eric, 
there was only one argument, to come home to Donny's 
formless nightmares visited on her  l i ke a judgement. 
Although she would have been tired in any case. She 
smiled for Donny. 
" Eight years old. Such a big boy!" His  head was turned 
toward the finch. Gently, she traced a fuzzy gilt eyebrow, 
claiming his attention. "Whose birthday is it, Don-Don?'' 
The gaze that fastened on her face was clear and green 
and bottomless as a mountain lake. The golden brows 
puckered. 
" Donny's birthday," she prompted. "I know you can 
say it." 
Green eyes wavered between t h e  b i rdcage and 
Beverly's face. 
" Donny," she insisted. "B irthday." 
9 
Northridge Review 
" Dah," he finally said, the sound released slowly and 
with care, fragile as a robin's egg. '' Bah-bah." She smiled 
and patted his cheek. H e  began to bump from side to 
side. " Bah, bah, bah, bah . . .  ," he chanted. 
Already this morning, the tension was settling in her 
shoulders. Her smile faded. "My goodness, I almost 
forgot. Wait t i l l  you see . . .  " She squeezed through the 
narrow space between table and wheelchair and headed 
for the pantry with quick, excited steps. 
It was a tiny built-in pantry with leaded glass doors. 
Boxes of cereal, jars of baby food labelled with smiling 
infant faces were visible through its miniature windows. 
She liked the pantry; it was a touch of homey, old­
fashioned charm. As for the rest of the flat - it was there, 
that was all. Four walls enclosing mother and son, a roof 
over their heads. 
Behind the oatmeal box on the second shelf were three 
square envelopes all marked ' Donny' in the same hand. 
She drew them out and cried, "Wait t i l l  you see!'' Donny 
still lurched rythmically in his chair. 
The sun fled, leaving the kitchen dim. Beverly flipped 
the light switch. 
' 'Birthday cards," she grinned. There was just space 
enough to pul l  a chair out and wedge herself against the 
dinette. She pecked the formica with the edge of one stiff 
envelope. Donny stopped rocking; his head swivelled. 
Beverly laid the cards out carefully. 
Balloons in primary red and blue, sulphurous ducks 
with a placard proclai m i n g  '8 YEARS 0 LD': "Mrs. 
Karpuzov," she read. " I sn't that nice?" She waved the 
bright colors before his face, and he focused briefly. 
There was a volley of bird chatter from the finch, a whir­
ring ruffle, then the rapid light tapping of its circuit around 
the bottom of the cage. 
10 
Judith Duke 
The next card was all flowers and serious script. "This 
one is from Daddy." Alarm rippled across Donny's slack 
moon face: for an instant, the air hummed with a vague 
unease. Butthe card was a lie, a lie and a lullaby:" . . .  come 
true, Having a wonderful son l ike you. With all my love, 
Daddy." Donny's gaze drifted away, peaceful. 
She wondered where Donny's father was. She hadn't 
heard since the divorce. For four years, his memory had 
retreated, farther and farther away. Some could not bear 
to witness certain and pointless deterioration. 
"And, O F  C O U R S E ,  there's one from M E  . . . " S h e  
looked at the child's profile. H e  was n o  longer there. Like 
father, like son. Her hand fell slowly to the table, down 
and down. She left the last card in its envelope. 
Eric, her- what? Boyfriend? Temptation? Eric was a 
salesman. He'd be driving his inland loop today, spread­
ing charm and order blanks through the outlying sections 
of his territory. H e  wasn't due to call at Valley Roofing for 
another week. 
So there would be no sudden breath of air, no lifting 
heart, nothing for her at the office, a knocked-together 
hut at the back of the supply yard, an over-sized wooden 
box cluttered with scarred desk, crumpled invoices, bi l ls 
of lading, and fi l ing cabinets that banged her knees if she 
shifted too far in her chair. A person could suffocate. 
Perhaps he would stop by tonight, after Donny was 
tucked into bed and out of sight. Eric would press for a 
decision. She saw Donny sitting in  a vast and shadowed 
room while white uniforms flitted through the gloom like 
ghosts. She and Eric walked through the park, and the 
pigeons swirled in the air like a cloud of confetti. "Think of 
me," his voice breathed inside her. He would press . . .  
Her  tight shoulders ached. Her  breasts ached. H e r  
heart ached. 
11  
Northridge Review 
Beverly looked at her son. Last year at this time, he had 
balanced, for a while, in a regular chair. He said ''birthday" 
- drawn out slow, of course, but clear as day - and even 
seemed to examine the cards. She caught herself before 
she sighed; it was becoming a habit. 
It took no time at al l  to slip into jeans and shirt and 
sneakers. Then she ran cold water into the pan she'd used 
for Cream of Rice and into the two sticky bowls and left 
the dishes crowded together in the sink. 
Napkins, sodas. Cup and spoon. Next an apple and a 
bologna sandwich followed the jars of bananas and 
strained beef into a brown bag, and, on top, she put two 
cupcakes from the bakery. The bag went in Donny's lap. 
He sat with his arms draped around it the way she'd 
arranged them. l ike the l imbs of a bendable doll, a 
doughy mannequin in  too-tight OshKosh overalls and 
too-new sneakers. 
She had put the car keys somewhere - it was cheaper, 
usually, to take the bus and besides, it conserved gas ­
there they were, nowtheywere ready. She put the keys in 
her pocket, nestled her purse in  his lap alongside the 
grocery bag, then carefully manuveured the wheelchair 
backwards out of the room, turning the light off and leav­
ing the finch quiet in the dark corner. 
The rickety elevator clanked down, down, to the faded 
lobby, and they went through the lobby and down the 
crumbling elegance of the steps at the entrance of the 
building. 
On the sidewalk, Donny blinked at the light. There was 
no yellow bus at the curb, no special bus with converted 
doorways and hydraulic lifts and modified aisles. When 
she turned the chair away from the bus-stop, he began 
to fidget. 
" N o  school, she explained, "You and I are playing 
12 
judith Duke 
hooky. That's your present: we're having a picnic!" She 
explained again, several times, changing words and tone, 
until something of her meaning filtered through and he 
was satisfied. Or simply forgot. 
He was a growing boy- heavier, it seemed to her, 
everyday. She worriedabout getting him in the car. l t had 
been so long since he'd been in the car. They seldom 
went out. Desolation was easier in private. 
She wondered whether the makeshift harness would 
hold h im straight in the seat now that he was getting so 
big. She worried about the freeway, about car trouble and 
needing more napkins and finding the road to the creek 
and getting the wheelchair down the path. 
How could she concentrate on important decisions 
when she was hemmed in by trivialities? Donny's father 
had never understood either, and back then it was just 
beginning, really. Men had so little patience. She forgotto 
hold the sigh back. 
The car was a station wagon, a tank, splotches of chalky 
white overtaking the original grey paint like a skin d isease. 
II U.S. Navy Motor Pool" and a string of numbers still 
showed faintly on the door, and rows of rusty holes ran 
the length of the car, marking the former locations of 
decorative chrome. 
' ' Bu i l t  to last," she told Donny, lean i n g  over h is  
shoulder to point. Exactly what h is  father had said when 
he'd brought the car home, although it was ten years old 
at the time and the broken odometer had already turned 
over once. II Built to last," he said and disappeared the 
next week. Which was touching, in a way, since he must 
have wanted to leave her well provided for, at least as far 
as transportation was concerned. 
On the freeway, the wagon labored In the slow lane and 
lugged at every rise in the road. But it felt l i ke they were 
1 3  
Northridge Review 
soaring above the highway at the speed of light. Hot wind 
rushed through the open window, and the city sped by 
l ike a muted kaleidoscope. Donny was entranced. The 
freeway snaked out from beneath a dun-colored veil of 
smog and into the brown hi l ls and wound through the 
canyons. 
Then, familiar as yesterday, there was the turn-off. And 
suddenly, a small and noisy Donny stood bouncing in his · 
seat, three years old, with a toddler's unquenchable 
energy. Donny's father sat behind the wheel, except his 
mustache had vanished and his blonde hair was Eric's, a 
glossy brown-black. He smiled at her with Eric's caress­
ing smile. 
And how could she forget the road? The three of them 
took the same route every week: behind a '  No Trespass­
ing' sign there was token asphalt for a mi le and a half, and 
then the air turned to dust and the road turned to dirt and 
fist-sized rocks bounced u n d e r  t h e  car. T h e  t i res 
crunched over dry wi ld oats, and she parked in their  usual 
spot near the edge of the gully. 
Going down was harder than she'd thought. The path, a 
narrow fire road, cut steeply across the face of a shallow 
cl iff. She dug her heels in, hauling on the hand grips and 
trying to throw the load back on the rear wheels of the 
wheelchair. Donny sagged, inert, his face gentle in the 
open air. The big wheels jerked over stones and caught in 
holes. She was constantly wrenching the chair straight, 
fighting it as it skewed from side to side. Her arms and legs 
were heavy, trembling with the strain. 
She might have managed to carry him. Beverly stopped 
and steadied the weight in the chair. She should have car­
ried the boy and come down again with the folded chair. 
But she'd been thinking of them as a unit. 
There was no way to stop now. She struggled on. They 
14 
Judith Duke 
bucked and slithered down the cliff, and it seemed like 
years before they reached the bottom. She felt dizzy from 
the effort. She patted the wheelchair and giggled, ' 'Bui lt 
to last. " 
They were in a wash threaded with a ribbon of running 
water and a procession of cool cottonwoods. She forced 
the wheelchair through the sand. Near the trees there 
was shade and space and firmer ground. She smoothed 
her hair back with both hands to let the breeze fan her 
face, then stretched trium phantly. 
She was curious. " Do you remember?," she asked. 
But Donny was gone, leaving only the mild landscape 
of his face. H is head lolled back against one shoulder, and 
the green eyes roved the open sky. 
"Well," she said aloud, from long habit. " I  guess it's 
time for lunch." 
The lunch shut up in the brown bag was a jumble. The 
story of her l ife. She sighed and rummaged through the 
cupcake fragments. 
No broken jars. But her sandwich looked as though it 
had been hammered. She dangled it between finger and 
thumb and grimaced."! guess not," she said. Instead, she 
fed the boy, whose mouth gaped automatically between 
spoonfuls, even food failing to distract from an inspection 
of clouds and sunlight flickering in the leaves. 
She was afraid to open the soda cans: battered about 
like that, under pressure, they would probably explode. 
So she brought him a cup of water from the creek, then 
wet a napkin in the cup. The paper dissolved beneath her 
fingers as she wiped his face. She threw the soggy wad 
into the bag along with the remainders of the picnic. 
The boy in the wheelchair paid no heed. He had seen 
the birds, a trio of sparrows popping l ightly over the 
ground, coming to investigate. Beverly edged away; he  
15 
Northridge Review 
didn't need her. -At the edge of the creek she freed her 
feet from sneakers. and rolled up her jeans. The cold 
water bit at her skin ,  and stones s l id underfoot. She 
flapped her arms for balance. The shining water forced 
her to squint. 
It was vety quiet. When she rolled her head from 
shoulder to shoulder, there was a grinding sound in her 
neck, and faint cracks when the clenched muscles re­
laxed and tiny bones snapped into place. 
A raucous cry sliced through the stillness. The sparrows 
had vanished. Farther up the wash, two ravens squabbled 
and danced over something in the sand, their huge wings 
arched wide. Closer, on the near shore, the boy seemed 
to be drowsing. 
Beverly waded downstream to the bank, to listen under 
the trees. She spread weightless arms wide and still there 
was room. Eyes closed, she shuffled in lazy circles. 
Voices breathed in the cottonwoods. Whispers and 
phantoms wove behind her eyelids as she turned. " No 
hope," Donny's father said. " l  can't, l just can't . . .  I can't, 
she echoed. Doctors shook their heads, murmuring in 
serious pairs. The mothers buzzed behind their wall; 
faces closed against her in the street. 
" Hopeless," said Eric, her new hope, tugging at her 
hand. In connection with Eric. He said, ''Think of us.'' 
Always, she answered. 
Eric's face wavered, melted into young Donny's, fresh 
and gleeful. She cocked her head. He was piping, thin and 
high, a string of words flung back over his shoulder to her. 
S h e  couldn't  catch the words. But h e  was happy. H e  
darted away, out from under the trees, and she lost h im in  
the glare. 
Beverly opened her eyes. It was time to leave. Relief 
made her l ight-headed. 
1 6  
judith Duke 
Climbing up was easier; her muscles were refreshed 
and strong. She fixed her eyes on the lip of the cliff. Back 
under the cottonwoods, Donny sat enthroned, turned to 
gold. A squirrel nestled on his shoulder, jabbering softly in 
his ear. Guardian ravens crouched on the back of the 
chair, and sparrows perched trustingly in his outstretched 
hands. His smile was like a benediction. 
When she got home, she would fly to Eric. He would 
accept her, d raw her into the circle of his arms and fold his 
body around her l ike a cocoon. 
1 7  


Flying

Harris, Gregory

Gregory Harris 
You Left 
You left a bracelet 
hairpin or other 
trinket, item 
when you left 
A funny forgetfulness 
I reminded you 
but you left silky 
things and 
bedclothes, too 
Once, you left nothing 
with me searching 
flipping pillows and 
papers looking for it 
21 


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