California State University (CSU): Open Journal Systems

Tinker, Lynn

[Hands Folded ... 
Ankles Crossed] 
In full rooster bellow-forte fashion 
Chicken George breaks the morning 
Lynn Tinker 
well before the softened milky edges of the pre-dawn barn roof 
lift out from the mist 
still hanging low on the pasture just beyond. 
My father snores in the room facing seaward, 
out over the stretch of babies' breath, 
like fields of clouds, and lupis, 
and the spruce grove and rocky ledge, and below to Cope's Cove. 
Only in some rolling seafaring dream might George's call, 
on farm side, register shrill as the boatswain's whistle 
for all hands on deck, or the screech of gulls 
hanging, dropping, hanging, in the aft wind 
to catch the bait dregs tossed to the curly seafoam in the wake. 
Dad's nostrils twitch in his sleep 
and in the peace of his seaman's dreams 
his cheeks fill with air as the exhale 
phuh-flutters past slack lips, 
hands folded on his chest 
ankles crossed 
economy of space. 
II I lie awake. 
This visit has shown me rife lines in his edged face, 
due softening, that show my face's furrows less 
only in number than in kind; 
but it's these fathoms between us that fester. 
A far reach between us lies undiminished, 
our endless armistice ensuring we flounder as so much jetsam, 
sovereignly bobbing, afloat, but scarcely, and apart. 
6 
NORTHRIDGE REVIEW 
III When did we make such a dull wicked truce? 
to merely tread water here 
or as if pace the farm side's acres aimlessly 
wandering the mobius path with some promise 
to never meet. 
I have enfolded sons in this lap 
and breathed their hot heads, their sweaty sticky damp palms, 
their vinegar cheeks, their almost necks, 
that I might suck them back in to me, 
and I can measure the love of a child. 
I will see you stumble out of your squeaky bed at morning's light 
your eyes as watery as the infant son, 
your hair as tousled 
your ass crack showing just as dark a slice 
above your fallen frayed drawstring at the back. 
You are just a grown male, 
and we will end this snooze of a romance, father and daughter, 
or we may as soon lie back stiffly down 
our eyelids thick and heavy, cheeks falling back 
slackened jaws relaxing all the better 
for drooling into the sodden puddle ever expanding 
on the pillow by our ear. 
7 


English

[Hands Folded... Ankles Crossed]

Svoboda, Jeannette

Untitled

Collins, Stephen

A Critical Review of Bret Easton Ellis\u27 Less Than Zero

Comenas, Cathy

cathy comenas 
The Baby Ki l ler 
Fourteen-year-old Anna 
gave birth in her parent's bathroom 
She went with an axe at his eyes 
that reminded her of her father 
then she couldn't hack anymore 
hid what was left in the bathtub 
and washed herself in the sink 
She walked out and sat 
with her mother and father 
who watched Jerry Falwell on T.V. 
talking about birth control 
Her father m umbled to Anna 
you should be l istening to this 
Anna stood up and went to bed 
woke up to her mother's screams 
and the back of her father's hand 
against her fat cheek 
When the judge asked her why 
she said 
I felt d irty 
When the j udge asked who 
she said 
I can't tel l  
After the trial the judge told why he sent her to prison 
It was a ghastly, disgusting 
way to get rid of a baby 
why she could have put it 
up for adoption 
The j udge went home 
sat i n  h is favorite chair 
and farted 
34 


The Baby Killer

Webster, Virginia

virginia webster 
Eu logy for a Space Shuttle 
for Sk ip  
If in this sleep I speak 
it's with a voice no longer personal 
When I was ten my mother 
l it the bu rner on the kitchen stove 
I remember seeing the cr isp b lue f lames 
from where I sat and how 
I startled when a lu mbering moth 
crackled in a swift puff. 
She used to tel l me how moths 
would fly i nto a candle's f lame, but 
I had never seen anyth ing d ie that way. 
So I asked her why it flew i nto the fire. 
She to ld  me it l iked the l i ght. 
I wondered years later 
after I felt the bump of a desert hare 
beneath my car one n ight 
-Adrienne Rich-
wondered what it thought of the two bright lamps 
moments before the weight of them passed over its body. 
It was the eyes I remembered, darting toward me 
the br ight pan ic ,  bl ind yel l ow. 
And one day there was tal k  of men on the moon.  
I was water ing my mar igo ld seeds when I saw a rocket 
on the televis ion,  count ing down to l i ftoff. 
A book I read said the fear of flyi ng 
was rea l ly  the fear of sex, the fear 
of the fuselage erecti ng ,  of it ho ld ing ,  
the fear of  fal l i ng. 
I th i n k  of that now. How could they 
not have been th i n k i ng that: g iant straight th i ng .  
And the power of  the blast loud wh ite no ise. 
44 
After, when I looked down, I saw 
the wh ite-green tip of a marigold push ing up 
into sun passing through the curtain .  
I th ink  i f  a scientist could explain 
the i nert seed cracking into space 
stirr ing from sleep into a jagged mouth of l ight 
then I could say that the l ight we fol low 
pul ls  me for that reason too, how 
one day I came to sit at the helm of a ship 
pointing  toward the sun. 
It must have been l ike this before 
seeds movi ng from womb to womb 
one dark space opening into another. 
The l ight  is br ighter here than I had expected 
the clouds are not as soft. 
But the edge of heaven is b lue. 
45 


Eulogy for a Space Shuttle: for Skip

Samuels, Neal

neal samuels 
Learn ing .To Forget 
Of course it happens slowly 
a sl ight clenching 
i n the neck 
an innocent heart's betrayal 
Years later 
you're backing slowly 
away 
from al l  human contact 
learn ing to forget 
your  missing chi ldren 
and a woman's love 
sleeping alone 
in the barren 
darkness 
learn ing the dead's 
si lent language 
How can you explain 
your heart's savage beating? 
She was your mother 
and she's dead 
The soft comfort 
of your name 
of her l ips 
one windy night long ago 
a story for a child 
waiting 
learn ing to forget 
Honorable Mention-(1986 Academy of American Poets). 
89 


Learning To Forget

Sterndale, Wendy

Wendy Sterndale 
Installation at the Museum 
de Kooning on the floor, 
casually dumped. 
Magic black brushed on canvas. 
One is framed on the wall, 
formally presented. 
A couple more dumped on the floor 
are creased, as if they're not precious. 
This canvas of wide wild brushwork 
is a two fisted effort. 
Exhilerating in  its odd placement. 
center stage on maplewood floor. 
22 


Installation at the Museum

Ritchie, Margaret

Three Poems: "the geologist and me" "Not Just You and Me" and "On the Porch with My Daughter"

Jensen, Fay

Resuscitation

Pocengal, Janice

The Guy I\u27m After

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