DigitalCommons@C.O.D.

Zielinski, Florence M.

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 13
Spring 5-1-2017
PALM OF MY HAND
Florence M. Zielinski
College of DuPage
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Recommended Citation
Zielinski, Florence M. (2017) "PALM OF MY HAND," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 13.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/13
PALM OF MY HAND 
  
I do not need my cell phone but 
you continue paying for it, and I do not use it. 
I have not used it for two years. 
One day I will not need anything but to 
look in the palm of my hand. 
  
Technology will reduce me to that. 
I will need no computer, printing paper, e-mail or mail box. 
I will need no telephone, stationery, pens or pencils. 
All I will need is to look into the palm of my hand. 
My bedroom will need no bookshelves, no books to read, 
no boom box for music, not discs, no tapes. 
That is OK with me.  I will have it all in the palm of my hand. 
My bedroom will need a bed, and a chair. 
Maybe it will be virtual.  I am not sure. I will not care. 
I will have no favorite furniture to move or store. 
I will have everything I will need all day. 
If something is missing 
I will look for it in the palm of my hand. 
The palm of my hand would 
supply all my needs. 
On second thought... 
I would not like eating out of the palm of my hand 
Florence M. Zielinski
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English

PALM OF MY HAND

Attiyeh, Martha

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 18
Spring 5-1-2017
You Asked
Martha Attiyeh
College of DuPage
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Recommended Citation
Attiyeh, Martha (2017) "You Asked," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 18.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/18
You Asked 
  
Smiling, you asked, You know you can trust me, 
Don’t you? 
And I did.  I did in my bones. 
Bad luck for me they are foolish. 
They’ve paid for their innocence, though. 
Frozen since the day I heard 
You ask someone else.
Self Portrait in Winter
Tonia Jackson
Martha Attiyeh
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You Asked

Laird, Jeff

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 23
Spring 5-1-2017
Blowout
Jeff Laird
College of DuPage
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Recommended Citation
Laird, Jeff (2017) "Blowout," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 23.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/23
 “He’s a fainter!” 
 Three little words so quickly emasculate a grown man. 
 “His hands are cold,” one nurse said. 
 “He’s gone pale,” said another, the one in charge, I think.  “Okay, 
we’re calling this off!” And with that, she stripped the rubber tourniquet 
from my arm. 
 “Don’t faint on me, okay?” she said, more of a threat than request. 
 A third nurse provided a cool washcloth for my neck and orange 
juice for some quick energy. 
 “Breathe deeply,” she said, then moved on to other duties, leaving 
me in the chair in the hallway of the medical center. Another out-patient 
three chairs down stared at me as if I might spontaneously combust or 
melt or turn into a chicken. I smiled wanly at her. She rolled her eyes and 
looked away. 
 I’d just stopped in for some routine blood tests — a couple of 
vials and I’m on my merry way. Now I’d been escalated to a problem case 
requiring the attention of the entire nursing staff. I was embarrassed. Still, 
I couldn’t bring myself to look at my arm to inspect the blowout. They 
were right. 
 I am a fainter. 
 I hate anything related to veins. I don’t like my wife to even 
touch the veins on the back of my hand. And needles! I can’t watch while 
giving blood; I’m not bothered by the pain, it’s the vein. And the blood. 
My blood. Outside my body.  I don’t like that.  I also hate IVs, ‘cause the 
needle has to remain in my vein for an extended period of time. 
 Honestly, I’m getting a little woozy just writing this. 
 That said, the simple blood draw seemed inconsequential, as I 
have found a way to distract myself while the deed is done. Look away. 
Go to a happy place. Ignore the minor pinch— no blood, no needle, just a 
pinch! La…la…la… 
 I got to the lab and confidently exposed my right arm — my 
good, blood-givin’ arm — then dutifully looked away as the nurse jabbed 
me with the needle.  I was mellow. I breathed deeply and stared out the 
window waiting patiently for her to say “Okay, that’s it!” 
 Instead, she said, “Uh-oh.” Not exactly what you want to hear 
from a medical professional.  I thought that it was the worst thing for a 
patient in my position to hear. 
 I was wrong. 
 In a mild panic, she called another nurse over.  “Why is it swell-
Blowout
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ing like that?” she asked. 
 See, that’s worse. 
 The other nurse didn’t seem too concerned, “Oh, that’s just a 
blowout,” she said. 
 Now, I’m sure the term “blowout” is common nursing lingo for 
something minor, but to me, the one apparently blowing out, it did not 
sound good.  My mind filled with images of tragic car crashes. 
 “How much more blood do we need?” the second nurse asked as 
she wrapped a tourniquet around my left arm and started probing for a 
new vein to tap. 
 “Three vials,” the first replied. “I only got a little over one from 
this arm.” 
 They weren’t talking to me, just each other. I was some piece of 
meat they were carving up. I wasn’t in a mood for discussion anyway. Re-
member how I hate veins?  And needles?  Here I am with two nurses, two 
needles, two veins and a blowout. I was freaking out just a bit, anxiously 
looking at the ceiling, unable to watch the left-arm probing nor subject 
myself to the right-arm damage.  The second nurse, the one probing my 
arm for a vein, abruptly ceased her search and looked me in the eye. 
  “Are you okay?” she asked, suddenly very concerned. 
 “Uhh, well, yeah…” I said, trying not to think about the blowout. 
 “He’s a fainter!” she yelled out, signaling all nurses in the area to 
immediately converge on me for maximum humiliation. I was stripped of 
my tourniquet and pride, and left with a moist towel and OJ to compose 
myself. 
 I recovered for a few minutes. The patient next to me finished up 
and was on her way. 
 My original nurse, the one surprised by the blowout she’d given 
me, returned. “Are you ready to proceed?” she asked. 
 “Sure,” I said. The butcher couldn’t find a vein on my left arm, 
either. 
 She called over the nurse who seemed to be the senior nurse on 
call. As she was probing and probing my arm for a vein (and, yes, freaking 
me out), two other nurses rushed over in a panic warning, “He’s the faint-
er!!” 
 They might as well have declared, “He’s the bed-wetter!!” 
 The probing stopped. They moved me, carefully, to another room 
that had a bed.  I reclined, extended my left arm again. After a quick re-
view, the senior nurse declared, “That’s it, I’m going in through the hand.” 
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 Good thing I was lying down.  
 I started seeing spots as she secured the tourniquet to my wrist.  
That hurt, and as I closed my eyes to the world swimming before me, 
I heard footsteps running.  I opened one eye to see the nurse running 
out of the door.  She quickly returned with a big needle in one hand and 
something dangling in the other, like a giant vein. 
 I passed out. 
 The vial of ammonia-smelling horridness used to revive me was 
a virtual slap to my nasal cavity. I shook my head and tried to exhale the 
nastiness. 
 “You better now?” asked one of the nurses, very serious as she 
checked the dilation of my pupils. 
 “Well, I am a fainter,” I shrugged. 
 “Lie there for as long as you need,” she said. After about fifteen 
minutes, I slowly swung my feet to the floor and tested my sea legs. Ev-
erything seemed in order, so I shuffled down the hall to the main lobby 
and wisely collapsed in a big comfy chair for another few minutes before 
heading out to my car. 
 That night at home, I stared at the bandage on my arm afraid of 
what horror lay beneath. My wife’s college roommate is now a surgical 
technician, so we call her whenever we have a medical question. 
 “A blowout?” she repeated back to me over the phone. 
 “Oh, sure. That’s when someone’s taking blood or inserting an IV 
and the needle goes in too far. It passes through the backside of the vein. 
Kinda scary looking, but not a big deal. Basically the sign of bad needle-
work.” 
 Wincing at the mental image, I thanked her and hung up the 
phone. My arm ached. 
 Relieved that ultimately it was no big deal, no matter how bad 
it looked, I sat comfortably on the couch – just in case – and prepared 
to remove the bandage. Carefully peeling back the Band-Aid and cotton 
revealed a nasty, yellowish-green bruise about four inches long and two 
inches wide on the inside of my arm. 
 I sneered a little in disgust, then shrugged. Nothing really to faint 
about. 
 But I did anyway. 
Jeff Laird
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Laird: Blowout
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Blowout

Blanco, Tania

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 40
Spring 5-1-2017
Freedom to Grow
Tania Blanco
College of DuPage
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This Artwork is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
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Recommended Citation
Blanco, Tania (2017) "Freedom to Grow," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 40.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/40
Freedom to Grow
Acrylic and collage on canvas by Tania Blanco
Spring 2017    39
Fre dom to ro
Acrylic and col age  i  lanco
Spring 2017    39 1
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Freedom to Grow

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 1 Article 6
Fall 12-1-2017
Table Of Contents
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This Prefatory Note is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for
inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
(2017) "Table Of Contents," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 1 , Article 6.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss1/6
VPrairie Light Review  Fall 2017
Through The Window
Trains in the Dark, Degas at the Ballet
Maude Fealy Portrait
Reincarnation (V2)
Brother
Drawing of Leo Tolstoy
Salt
Woman And Flute
Listening
I Wait
The Changing Colors of Skin
Hit and Run
For Lack of a Hero
My Therapist’s Garbage Can Talks To Me
Bridge Over the Mississippi
Workshop
Bond
Unpredictable
Guidance
Hangin’ By The Street Corner
The Prettybird Plight
Continuum
Heartland
Ivan Albright’s American Beauty, Trans-
formed
End of the Block
Mills Park on Marion Street
Residual
Vigil
Squeeze
Rain Revelation
Hope
Devotion
On the Worship of Money
Cover
1,2
3
4
5
6
7
9
10
11
11
12
12
13
13,14
14
15
16
17
18
19
24
25
27
28
30
31
33
36
36
37
38
39
Rachel Schwarz
Mardelle Fortier
Alice Ventura
Michael Lee Johnson
Robin Weis
Natalia Toreeva
Joey Szelina
Natalia Toreeva
Jill Spealman
Ida Kotyuk
Carole Mertz
Amy Peter
Jessica Shubert
Ronald Boettger
Thomas Skibbie. 
John J. Gordon
Molly Miklosz
Jasmine Meza
John J. Gordon
Bryan VanZanten
Jessica Shubert
Molly Miklosz
Matthew Bailey
Julie P. Center
Matthew Bailey
Raymond Ziemer
Sean Hurst
MJ Bressler
Robin Weis
Amy Peter
Jenna Pederson
Robin Tryloff
Edward Varga
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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et al.: Table Of Contents
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VIPrairie Light Review  Fall 2017
For Steve Kirchen
Clocks and Time
Let It Go
Counting
Fall of Saigon, 30 April 1975
Stuck In Red
Frost
When We Dream 
Cuts and Scrapes
Graduation Day
Rebecca in Human Resources
Snakes
Do Maples Mourn In Fall?
What the Fuck is Cheese?
LGBTQIA
Dripping With Blood
Panic
Moonglow
Crouch
Stimulation
42
43
44
45
46
47
50
53
54
55
56
58
59
60
60
63
65
66
67
Back 
Cover
Raymond Ziemer
Florence M. Zielinski
Mary Sikorski
Raymond Ziemer
Karen Owen
Mary Sikorski
Alyssa Lenihan
Mary Sikorski
Alyssa Maycan
Bonniejean Alford
Ronda Crawford
Paul Giacalone
Audrey Stilling
Heather Wolf
Heather Wolf
Ryan Santangelo
Taylor Roylance
Taylor Roylance
Robin Weis
Paul Giacalone
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The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 40, No. 1 [2017], Art. 6
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The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 1 Article 41
Fall 12-1-2017
Clocks and Time
Florence M. Zielinski
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Zielinski, Florence M. (2017) "Clocks and Time," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 1 , Article 41.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss1/41
43Prairie Light Review  Fall 2017
Clocks and Time
Florence M. Zielinski
The day I retired I put my watch away. 
I also decided that clocks 
would no longer have any influence 
on my life and days. 
  
The first year was one of bliss. 
Ah, I retired for the joy of this! 
No alarms woke me from my deep sleep, 
No stressful minutes were ticking 
to remind me of appointments to keep. 
  
No commitments were spelled out to exact minutes 
of fleeting time with promises in it. 
My time was mine.  I ruled the clock. 
But time and life delivers shocks.  
  
I am again watching clocks and 
the clocks have gone back on the shelves. 
The alarms are set and I must follow 
where time and life sends me tomorrow. 
  
How can I tell the appointment is now, 
or when to take the pill that is due? 
The clock dictates time and I must follow 
where time and life sends me – today and tomorrow.
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Clocks and Time

Wolf, Heather

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 40 | Number 1 Article 54
Fall 12-1-2017
LGBTQIA
Heather Wolf
College of DuPage
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Wolf, Heather (2017) "LGBTQIA," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 40 : No. 1 , Article 54.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol40/iss1/54
60Prairie Light Review  Fall 2017
What The Fuck Is Cheese?
Heather Wolf
I texted her at 3 AM.  
I was already up,  
reaching for the phone to tell her 
the way she made me feel was like 
cement drying in my stomach, 
late night kisses drawn on the pavement  
in my shaky child’s scrawl. 
“What the fuck is cheese?” 
I texted her, even though I already knew the answer— 
it’s something good left alone for long enough, 
growing mold until it makes something else, 
something that tangs on your tongue like the words “I love you”, 
which is what I was trying to text her.  
But instead I say things like milk 
in the hope it will make her laugh 
so hard she will forget to clean me up, 
and instead leave me out overnight 
to grow mold. 
LGBTQIA
I sit down before you on the couch; 
you’re worried that your daughter’s growing up too fast.  
I find myself in a pew, you at the pulpit, 
a straight woman preaching about the destructive nature 
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61Prairie Light Review  Fall 2017
of things she will never understand.  
 
You tell me not to create boxes.  
You don’t remember the time before we were carpenters— 
when only they were allowed building permits— 
but now we have hammers and nails and wood that smells like home, 
and all we long for is a place to sleep 
where we’re surrounded by familiar breathing.  
 
Your room is a place of safety, but I tell you to knock it down. 
“There is no rain in this world,” says the woman with the umbrella, 
and you tell me I do not need labels because the world is ready, 
while you kiss your husband in public and do not feel dread.  
 
In this world, a name is everything, 
and so when the young girl, huddled over her computer screen, 
finds a name for the things she is feeling, 
she finds a power you’ve known since birth 
and holds that name close like a blanket 
or a shiny penny— 
a promise to push through the cogs and wheels of her body 
to prove the machinery is not broken.  
 
You say these labels divide us, 
but your last name is different from my last name 
and here we are sitting in the same room. 
You are not upset about the new identities, 
but because your daughter has been expanding her vocabulary.  
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62Prairie Light Review  Fall 2017
 
Your daughter hears  
‘faggot’ and ‘cunt’ on the bus— 
words like prison bars— 
but I give her ‘gay’ and ‘transgender’. 
You hand me your scrub-brush speech, 
asking me to erase progress like bloodstains outside of Stonewall.  
 
When your God created this world, 
he gave Man the power to name.  
Shapes in the shadows became less scary 
because we knew them to be Monkey and Horse and Frog; 
the feelings inside us became less scary 
because we knew them to be Lesbian or Asexual or Queer.  
 
We found our place in such a tribe, 
and you found your place in a God who gave us the power 
to build ourselves up from the ribs of 
Sakia Gunn and Matthew Shepard and Harvey Milk 
and call ourselves LGBTQIA.
 
 Heather Wolf
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LGBTQIA

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 2
Spring 5-1-2017
Title Page
Follow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr
This Prefatory Note is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for
inclusion in The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
(2017) "Title Page," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 2.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/2
Prairie Light Review
Art and Literary Magazine
Vol. XXXIX No. 2
Spring 2017
College of DuPage
425 Fawell Blvd., Glen Ellyn,
Illinios 60137
www.prairielightreview.org
contact: prairielightreview@gmail.com
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Title Page

Fortier, Mardelle

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 17
Spring 5-1-2017
Nostalgia (Woody Allen, "Midnight in Paris")
Mardelle Fortier
College of DuPage
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This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Fortier, Mardelle (2017) "Nostalgia (Woody Allen, "Midnight in Paris")," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 17.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/17
Nostalgia (Woody Allen, “Midnight in Paris”) 
  
The guy wanted to move to Paris, 
at its “most beautiful in the rain.” 
  
Inez wished to make money 
and live in Malibu. 
  
Gil hoped to pen a novel— 
she dismissed this “romantic daydream.” 
  
Lost in back streets of Paris, 
Gil was picked up by a Peugeot. 
The Fitzgeralds, Gertrude Stein, Hemingway; 
everyone creative attended the party. 
Gil found the lost generation...and a girl. 
  
And everything was even lovelier 
in the rain. One could become 
hooked on the past. 
  
Adriana and Gil: caught 
in the glittering magic of Paris. 
A kiss could keep one 
enthralled in a Golden Age. 
Everyone has a different Golden Age. 
  
But many of us agree: 
Paris is most intriguing in the rain. 
  
Mardelle Fortier
Spring 2017    19 1
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Nostalgia (Woody Allen,  Midnight in Paris )

Kurza, Alexandra

The Prairie Light Review
Volume 39 | Number 2 Article 42
Spring 5-1-2017
False Fairytale
Alexandra Kurza
College of DuPage
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This Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion in
The Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.
Recommended Citation
Kurza, Alexandra (2017) "False Fairytale," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 39 : No. 2 , Article 42.
Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol39/iss2/42
False Fairytale 
Disguised as Prince Charming,
my eyes saw perfection.
You were gallant and bold,
and I blinded with deception. 
 
My heart pleaded for you,
desired your loving glance.
But my brain said “no,
let go here’s your chance.” 
 
I clung to the idea
that you could be mine.
I wasted my feelings,
and wasted my time. 
 
How did I fall
for someone like you?
How could I have possibly
been such a fool? 
 
Your true colors shone,
brighter than fool’s gold.
I should have given up,
the first time I was told. 
 
You were a prince,
but not of my fairytale.
You were a villain,
who stole a heart so frail. 
 
So now our chapter closes,
we don’t have to pretend.
We had our fun,
now goodbye, and the end. 
 
Alexandra Kurza
42    Prairie Light Review 1
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PALM OF MY HAND

You Asked

Blowout

Freedom to Grow

Table Of Contents

Clocks and Time

LGBTQIA

Title Page

Nostalgia (Woody Allen, Midnight in Paris )

False Fairytale

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