California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Lawrence, Monti

7Zl-
National AntheJn 
Monti Lawrence 
today 
i come to you with blood 
mmy eyes 
we are hypocritical sisters 
you and I 
we raise the wicked 
with crooked wooden arms 
i imagine you watch as 
i step from the shower 
the examination begins 
legs too thin 
hips too wide 
scrubbed clean 
i do not smile 
america 
this paradise holds 
no water or fruit 
we name only parasites 
and mold 
echo the dissent of yesterday 
with a silent passion 
for repression 
we do not resist 
our stories are written 
for us and laid 
open to the right place 
to land 
we hold no history 
The NoRt:hRidyc Review 


English

National Anthem

Hormone

Slump

Biscuccia, Sonia

Photo Essay 
The Rodeo 
34 
Sonia Biscuccia 
The Rodeo 
35 


Photo Essay, The Rodeo

Alejandro Sonders, Scott

Scott Alejandro Sanders 
The Outcast: Montreal, 1988 
"Ghetto of the elect. A wall, a ditch. 
Expect no mercy. In this most Christian 
of worlds, the poet is the outcast Jew." 
-Marina Tsvetayeva 
The exploding gas carried his bride 
of fire across the hotel's fifth floor, 
tossed a glass bouquet to the street below 
and showered the wedding guests 
with rice and rain and crystal night. 
We dressed by rote, collecting 
credit cards, passports, one another 
and started down the concrete stairs. 
And within that smoke of dreadful dreams 
with death and danger imminent, 
I became the musician who played 
for time in Dachau and the poet 
wordless from the fumes that churned 
in perfect German ovens. And she 
became Hanna Senesh 1 dancing 
with torn feet, while corroding 
into yellow billowing soot. 
And our vision transmuted: expatriot 
snowbirds washed up on a foreign beach, 
still burning with music and holocaust, 
now belching retsina and feta cheese, 
reading Leonard Cohen in his golden years 
because he is an old/poet/Jew. 
And in the last, the streetlamps 
on the boulevard showed 
the ash had run wet and cold, 
so we gathered our remnants 
together, and returned our outcast 
62 
Scott Alejandro Sonders 
selves to that Montreal room, where 
we prayed and swayed, until morning 
also ignited and left us consumed: two 
old/poet/Jews. 
Hanna Senesh (1921-44): poet & Haganah fighter, parachuted 
into Nazi Command to rescue Allied P.O.W.'s. Later captured, 
tortured & executed by a German firing squad. 
63 


The Outcast: Montreal, 1988

Rhodes, Heather

Heather Rhodes 
Sequined Carnivore 
-Of two evils, choose the prettier. 
Carolyn Wells 
My stomach is growling. 
It gets a splash of eau de parfum 
to soothe the ravenous rumble. 
This silence lets gartered silk slink up 
in filmy jet, 
where my nouveau manicure in frost lingers 
impatient, 
surgeon-steady above the petaled mouth. 
Undulate in satin, 
straddle the vanity seat to wield that magic wand 
that coats and coats in ebony smolder. 
Creamy, inhaled, sniff of a laugh, 
golden spikes clicking on the marble squares, 
marking my grand opening. 
Pink splattering bubbly popped 
to launch a steaming vessel 
armed 
with weapons that spook asexual feminists. 
Laughter graduates from a blip 
to a belly-flattening roar 
as my spangled boa chokes 
all the worn out, Perma-Press, bon-bon poppers. 
Catch my wind -swept stride 
in a trail of fragrant moondust floating. 
My blood -swollen breasts move hypnotically 
with each step. 
Sizzling in glamorous swish, satin singing, 
the heavy pendulums taking countless prisoners. 
Blot my shimmering lips and blot them all out. 
Giggle to the tempo as I tango 
buoyant, on the world's luscious crust. 
What about the casualties? Between laughs, 
65 
Heather Rhodes 
66 
I catch a quick breath to say: 
beware the formal 
primp 
and 
gloss. 
\ , __ 
\ I 
' ' ' _. 
\ \ ' I 
Dancing With Death 
Ceramic Sculpture 
By Barbara Freeman 
' 


Sequined Carnivore

Villani, Luisa

Luisa Villani 
70 
Datura Dreams 
Green hairs of grass nestle my iced tea, 
the straw, a ghost tunnel down. 
I turn over a rock and red veins 
of ants drain into the turf 
as a shadow comes across my glass. 
There are always these lunging moments 
blooming in unreality 
like poppies with their black seeds 
-so much like the kernels of dirt 
beneath my fingernails-
or the burst of the datura trumpets 
zeroing down to us on the lawn. 
My brother stood atop my shoulders 
shaking his knees and reaching out 
picking flowers in his fists, 
then we ran around the yard 
blowing blossoms and biting hard 
as if we were angels gone mad. 
Inside a cloud I sweated and cried 
"The long man is coming, 
he wants my cheeks!" as 
hands held my face 
in a flesh anthurium 
stamen to my lips 
icy hot. My mother 
pressed ice to my lips 
for days, and my brother's too, 
as I asked her senseless questions 
in the narcotic of my youth. 
Why do men have penises? 
Why do some flowers have them too? 
Why are calla lilies white 
when they should be pink? 
Why do I have ajlower between my legs? 


Datura Dreams

Pearson, Marlene

Supper\u27s Ready

Webster, Virginia

Wo m b  Th i rst 
Virgin ia Webster 
They come here i n  afternoons dan g l i n g  c h i l d ren 
gathering on benc hes, watc h i ng the swift arch of swings 
and the c i rc le  of merri-go-rounds (and arou nd). 
I wonder at the sad ness of playg rou n d  geometry 
calcu lat ing the d i ameter of c i rcles l i ke 
One of them, round with a c h i l d  
push ing from her center t o  soft edges: 
Complacent mothers s m i l i n g  on park benches. 
When I come here to watch, 
broodmares, su re-footed d u m b ness, I th i n k. 
Usual ly I s i t  alone. 
N one playing out there is  m i ne. 
Like me, an empty swing seems out of place 
wish ing to push from its steep angle 
sky to g round, jealous of the rhythms 
from legs pumping on either s ide. 
So I saddle myself into the vacant space 
wh i l e  col lecti ng the c u rious gaze of mothers 
unsure of the comm u n ion: playg rou nd swing and woman. 
Then I kick my l egs u nt i l  I 've locked rhythm 
with the c h i l d ren on either s ide. 
A rush of air marks the rad ius of my arc 
A c h i ld asks, " W i l l  you play with us today?" 
66 


Womb Thirst

Hempel, Wes

On Leave 
Wes Hempel 
David did n't say anyth ing. That was typical of h i m .  At least that 
hadn't changed. He stood in front of the fireplace in the den and 
smiled as everyone took turns posing with h i m .  I watched Aunt 
Louise wrap her fat arms around his uniformed chest, sidle up as 
close as her large frame would al low. 
" Kiss me you big handsome m i l itary man !" She laughed and 
everyone laughed. The camera flashed as David bent to kiss her 
cheek. 
I saw all of it from where I was sitting in the l iv ing room. I d idn't 
see what there was to be happy about, why everyone was laughing 
and eating and drinking l i ke it was a celebration . 
"Okay, Janet," my mother said, "It's your turn ."  
When Janet stood up the room qu ieted. David waited by the 
mantle, looking at her and smi l ing, his hands in  h is pockets. She 
smoothed her dress, tucked a strand of short brown hair beh ind one 
ear, and leaned against him. He d idn't kiss her but put h i s  arm 
around her waist as the camera flashed. 
I d idn't l i ke janet. David, I guessed, was in  love. He spent 
practical ly every minute of h i s  leave with her. Every school day of 
those two weeks I rushed home, got out the bat and gloves, hoping 
he would come home before dark.  As the sun was setti ng the day 
before the party, I lay on my bed with h i s  mitt over my face. I closed 
my eyes and breathed in the dark richness of the sweat-stai ned 
leather. I remembered how it used to be before he met janet. He 
had never broken a promise to me before. 
I hardly recognized h im.  Everyone kept sayi ng how handsome 
he looked in his un iform; I thought he looked odd. It was so 
meticu lously pressed that it looked flat, two-d imensional - as if he 
were walking around holding it in  front of him instead of actual ly 
wearing it .  And, with h is  hair  gone, he d idn't look l i ke my brother. 
H is  head, practically shaved, looked l i ke a peach, a cap of fuzz, 
not un l ike the dead cl ump, the unfledged sparrow we found u nder 
the eaves two years before. 
I was seven. It was the same year our father asked h i m  to move to 
Colorado. David decided to stay with us, I th ink  mostly because I 
begged h im to. We shared the same upstairs room. The sparrows 
hatched al most d i rectly above my head . I had positioned my bed, 
in spite of mother's protests, under the wi ndow where I cou ld 
watch the progress of the nest. Each day I kept tabs on them, 
1 9  
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
waiting for the eggs to hatch, excited with the prospect of watching 
the babies learn to fly. 
I woke one morning, just after they had hatched, to s i lence. I 
looked up but cou ld see no sign of them. David was a lready out so I 
rushed to get dressed . Before I fin ished he came in .  He didn't  say 
anything but waited for me to put my jacket on, then led me 
outside. Strewn among the tal l  grass and irises were the remains of 
one of the babies. 
After school we buried it in a band-aid ti n beside the white pales 
that once enclosed our rose garden . The backyard had become 
wild and overgrown, but we cleared away a plot. David made a 
cross out of popsicle sticks and a rubber band; I adorned the mound 
with honeysuckle and clover. 
The next morning I remembered waking in the n ight and seeing 
h i s  bed empty. I looked out the wi ndow and saw h i m  by the grave, 
h is  white terrycloth robe the same shadowy blue in the moonl ight 
as the overgrown cal la lilies next to the fence. I planned to ask him 
about it at breakfast but forgot. Later I wondered if I hadn't just 
dreamt it. 
I watched him now as he sat on the couch between Aunt Ruth 
and janet. He didn't seem to mind that everyone was fussing over 
him .  Mrs. Piper, our next door neighbor, s l iced him a piece of the 
cake she had brought over, then sat on the piano bench to watch 
him eat it. She was the only parent in our neighborhood that had 
children my age. It was an old neighborhood of white clapboard 
houses, and mostly retired people lived in them. I didn't like 
Wanda and Alice Piper too much.  I never played with Alice at a l l ,  
but  sometimes I 'd go rol ler skating with Wanda if  things got desper­
ate enough. They had come to the party with their mother. Through 
the sliding glass doors I could see them on the patio, feeding cake to 
Alice's dol l .  
David, who was being extremely careful not to drop a n y  cake on 
his uniform, had managed to smudge chocolate frosting on his 
chin. I noticed it even from where I was sitting. He had very fair 
skin, almost the same color as the cal la lilies in our backyard. He 
was also overly modest. Though he had wide shoulders and a 
strong build, he rarely took his shirt off. Practical ly the only time I 
saw him without it was when he shaved. Before he joined the 
service he let me sit on the edge of the tub in the morning and 
watch.  Outdoors he had to be careful. If he was in  the sun longer 
than a few minutes he would burn, like he did the day he taught me 
to swim at Black Rock Lake. 
We had planned to go fishing at Purdy's Trout Farm in the 
footh i l ls north of town .  It was a good hour's drive. When we got 
there that morning the farm was closed . I tried not to let my 
disappoi ntment show. He suggested we drive u p  to Black Rock 
Lake where he cam ped when he was in I ndian Rangers. 
20 
Hempel!On Leave 
It was cal led Black Rock Lake because of the slate and black silt 
that surrounded the area. The lake, bottomed with this silt, was also 
black. The surface was like a mirror. David rol led his levis up and 
waded along the shore. I went in in my underwear. We were the 
only ones around.  
"Don't go out too far," he said. 
I was fascinated by the sky and the green pines on the su rface and 
the rippling effect caused by the movement of my body.  I felt the 
black mud between my toes though I couldn't see my feet. As the 
disturbed silt rose from the bottom, brilliant gold particles flickered 
underneath the su rface in the shafts of sun against my stomach .  
When I stopped moving and the water became stil l ,  I looked at my 
reflection.  
That was the last thing I remember before it happened . I was 
staring at my face and thinking I looked strange, like someone I had 
never seen before. There were birds circling on air currents above 
the lake. I watched them swoop down . I m ust have moved forward . 
My feet slipped out from under me, and I found myself thrashing in 
over my head . My mouth filled with water as I tried to cal l out. The 
sky swirled blue and green and black. Then I felt his arms roughly 
under mine, chafing against my ribs and chest as he hoisted and 
pul led me through the water. 
I lay on the shore; he sat next to me, his knees drawn u p  
supporting his elbows, the butts o f  his palms on his forehead. I 
could hear the hard release of his breath, see the water drip from his 
hair and nose. 
After a few minutes, he took his wet c lothes off and spread them 
over a rock. Then he dove in, swam the width of the lake and back. 
I watched his white shoulders move c leanly and powerfu l ly 
through the water. 
As he neared the shore I heard him cal ling me. "Come on back 
in," he shouted. 
"No," I said, "I  don't feel like it." 
He moved closer, stopped in water up to his waist and looked at 
me. "It's important, Jeff. I won't let anything happen to you . "  
Later, driving home, we sang songs he h a d  learned i n  Indian 
Rangers. He didn't like to talk but had a strong singing voice. I 
listened and watched the skin on his face and neck deepen redder 
and redder. 
"Jeffrey . . .  ," someone was cal l ing me. "Jeffrey, your father 
wants to talk to you . "  It was Janet. I looked up .  David was in the den 
holding the phone toward me. 
" I  don't want to," I said . David stood, looking su rprised, sti l l  
offering me the phone. My mother put her cake down and came 
over to my chair. 
"Jeff, your  father is calling from Colorado and he's asked for 
you . "  
2 1  
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
1 noticed how quiet it had become, how everyone was looking at 
me, waiting for me to get up from the chair and walk over and take 
the phone from my brother. I don't know why that simple act 
seemed impossible. My father rarely cal led, usual ly on birthdays 
and holidays; I always enjoyed tal king to him . So it was as surpris­
ing to me as it was to everyone else when I simply repeated : "I don't 
want to. "  
I stared at m y  arm o n  the arm o f  the chair. David, who I ' d  never 
heard lie before - said something into the phone about me not 
feeling wel l .  I 'm not sure he lied then. 
When the phone was hung u p, my mother tapped me on the 
knee. 
"Go and stand by Davy," she whispered, "I want to take your 
pictu re." 
"I don't want to," I said. 
"You don't want a picture of yourself with your brother? He's 
going away tomorrow; you may not see him for a long time." 
I stared at my arm . For some reason it was impossible for me to 
move. Then David grabbed me by the elbows and dragged me 
across the room. I felt the same rough chafing against my ribs and 
chest. But I struggled to get free this time. I kicked as hard as I could 
and yel led :  " I  don't want any picture. I don't care ."  
He held on tight. "Sure you do,"  he said. "Anyway, I want one 
with you. You can send me a copy when you write to me." 
" I 'm not going to write to you,"  I screamed . "Let go of me." I 
wriggled one arm free and hit him on the chest and shoulders. I 
didn't understand why I was hitting him or why I was yel l ing. I 
struggled as hard as I cou ld to get free and when I cou ldn't, my eyes 
blu rred and I screamed : "I hate you ! "  He let go, and I ran down the 
hal l  sti l l  yel l ing, " I 'm glad you're going away. I hope you never 
come back." 
In the dark attic, I stood before the crosshatched wires of the 
vent. The sun was low in the sky. Yel low leaves from Sweet G u ms 
and Walnut trees blew along the sidewal k.  I looked out across the 
rooftops to the yellow fields, the row of eucalyptus trees that ran 
along the al ley behind the dairy. There were a lready a few chim­
neys started . I thought soon the streetlamps would blink on. 
When he found me he had the gloves and the bat. I saw my glove 
come flying at me in the dim light and reached out to catch it j ust as 
it hit me in the stomach. 
Wal king to the field, I wanted to say something, to tel l  him how 
sorry I was. I wanted him to know how I real ly felt about his 
leaving, how I felt about him. B ut I was afraid if I tried to tal k, 
nothing would come out. 
I think he must have known how I felt. Perhaps he knew then 
even better than I did . As we walked, he ruffled my hair and began 
tal king idly about basebal l ,  about the wind . I remember wishing 
22 
Hempei!On Leave 
we would never reach the field, that we wou ld j ust go on walking 
l i ke that forever. 
It was late when we got started. He pitched u nderhand to me. 
The red sun th rew shadows l i ke spears from eucalyptus leaves 
across h is  broad teeth and cocked arm . I h it one, a long fly, and 
watched from the center of the field as he moved away toward the 
mountains outl in ing the twi l ight sky. 
23 


On Leave

Burns, Mike

o n  the breeze 
two cats 
s it  i n  front of the wi ndow 
their noses pressed tight 
against the gla�s, 
a d i stant mewing 
penetrates the noon-day a i r  
l ifted on the breeze, 
the same breeze that wakes my nose 
with the sour smel l of c h icken shit  
l i fted from poultry ranches 
tucked into the folds 
of red clay h i l ls, 
and it rem inds me to feed the geese 
before the neighbor's shrubs 
Mike Burns 
are picked bare, shredded by c lapsnappi ng beaks. 
and mom and pop goose 
laugh in thei r  pecul iar nasal way. 
87 


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