QuIetest Contributors:

Kyle Bawot
Leah Cohen
Tristanne Davis
Jonathan Feudi
Samuel Kahler
Lizzy Karp
Ian Kelly
Roy Rotheim
Jon Sedor
Slepterkov
Cat Stewart
Michaela Stone
Skip Suva
Keely Thomas-Menter

Cover Art:
Woodcut, (Jon Sedor)

Conceived/Edited by:
Samuel Kahler

AnImals (Volume 1, Spring 2010)

 Descent into Midway
(Keely Thomas-Menter)

Celestial
bodies
hover
in
the
night,
far
away


Flickering
like
bioluminescence
in
a
dark
pool.

No
one
is
moving
faster,
us
or
them,

These
lights,
some
as
small
as
single
flecks
of
gold
dust.

Everything
else
is
coated
in
a
viscid
black
black,

In
the
galactic
gelatin.





One
has
a
feeling
of
being
miniscule,

An
imperceptible
sliver
in
a
sky

Endless
and
undying
as
amaranth,

And
shivering
like
a
swarm
of
ants.





Descent
into
a
thicket
of
clouds,

We
slice
our
way
toward
a
world
that


Pays
attention
to
things
like
gravity.


A
sea
foam
tide,
a
liminal
place.



A
cluster
of
red
breaks
through,
shy
at
first,


Then
expanding
gold
and
orange,
an
amoeba
growing


Outward
into
recognizable
shapes.





There
is
a
point,
before
we
reach
the
ground,

When
the
world
is
a
village
toy
set,
the
kind
perched

On
someone’s
mantel
at
Christmas,
carefully
constructed

And
lit
up.

Clumps
of
white
cotton
stuffing
are
placed
as
randomly

As
possible
around
the
buildings
and
in
the
streets
so
we
know


That
it
is
winter
in
this
miniature
scene.



Portrait, (Michaela Stone)
Bible Lessons is
nestled
between
the
valley
they
make.

Silk—red
silk—red
like

(Leah Cohen) fire.

Rub
faster.
She
can
have
no
power
over
me.

Yea,
though
I

walk
through
the
valley
of
the
shadow
of
death,
I
will
fear
no
evil.

The
heathens
mutter,
grumble,
sweat
to
themselves
as
the
 Psalm
23.

bus
makes
its
way
through
the
customary
end‐of‐the‐day
stops.

 Poor
girl.

Suffocating
in
sin.

Someone
should
show
her
the

No
good,
the
lot
of
them.

Work
makes
them
miserable.

They
do
 way.

Someone
should
teach
her
a
lesson.

Someone
should.

She
is

not
know
what
I
know.
Work
hard
and
become
a
leader;
be
lazy
and
 asking
for
trouble.

Begging
for
trouble.

The
scent.

The
skirt.

The

never
succeed.
Proverbs
12:24.

These
people
are
lazy.

They
slump,
 silk.
Ask
and
it
will
be
given
to
you;
seek
and
you
will
find;
knock

think
dirty
thoughts,
do
not
fear
God.

They
are
as
stubble
before
 and
it
will
be
opened
to
you.
Matthew
7:7.

She
leans
far
forward,

the
wind,
and
as
chaff
that
the
storm
carrieth
away.

Job
21:18.

I
 rubs
a
finger
along
the
inside
of
her
shoe
where
it
cuts
into
skin.


place
a
protective
hand
over
my
pant
pocket.

My
work
is
never
 Her
golden
hair
falls
in
a
veil
over
her
breasts,
but
I
can
still
see

done.

Always
people
to
be
shown
the
way.

Not
that
they
listen.

 them
pressed
against
her
lap.

I
feel
the
splinters
on
the
cross.

Not
that
they
care.

Glutting
themselves
on
drink,
drugs,
 No,
no,
no.

Must
not
touch.

Must
be
good.
Can
a
man
take

pornography.

Satan’s
playthings.

No
room
in
their
hearts
for
Him.
 fire
in
his
bosom,
and
his
clothes
not
be
burned?
Proverbs
6:27.
He

And
then
the
bus
doors
open,
and
a
woman
climbs
up
the
 goeth
after
her
straightway,
as
an
ox
goeth
to
the
slaughter.



bus
steps.
All
I
can
see
is
her
hair.
She
has
the
hair
of
the
Virgin
 Proverbs
7:28.

Mary.

Shiny;
sun
hitting
yellow
stained
glass.

Sleek;
smoothed
by
 Still,
would
it
be
wrong?

To
follow
her
when
she
gets
off

His
own
hands.

It
is
the
one
good
thing
on
the
bus.

It
gives
me
 the
bus?

To
follow
her
home?

To
make
sure
trouble
doesn’t
find

hope.

I
remember
the
light.

I
remember
the
overwhelming
beauty
 her?

And
then
to
rub
against
the
fire
silk,
and
to
smooth
her
hair.


of
His
suffering
for
us.

But
then
a
waft
of
sickly
sweet
perfume
 But
stop
before,
before
any
screaming,
yes,
stop
before
any

blows
to
me
from
this
woman,
and
I
cannot
believe
I
have
 screaming.

It
wouldn’t
be
wrong.

She
needs
this.

It
would
be

compared
this
scantily
clad
strumpet
to
the
Virgin
Mary.
 teaching
her
a
lesson.
Teaching
is
a
light,
and
the
corrections
of

She
sways
towards
me,
sits
across
from
me,
spills
her
 discipline
are
the
way
to
life.
Proverbs
6:22‐24.
And
someone

perfume
into
me.

“Devil
juice,
Devil
juice,
Devil
juice,”
I
whisper.

 should
teach
her
a
lesson.

Someone
should.

She
stiffens,
turns
her
head,
stares
at
me.

Is
the
Devil
here?

I
shove

my
hand
in
my
pocket
and
wrap
it
around
the
wooden
cross
living

in
the
dark
there.

It
is
sturdy
and
hard,
and
I
rub
it
smooth
with
my

thumb
as
I
tighten
my
fist
around
it.

It’s
ok.

It’s
ok.

Shhh,
it’s
ok.


 A Kiss
No
God‐fearing
woman
would
wear
the
skirt
clinging
to
her
 (Slepterkov)
hips,
begging
to
be
touched,
stroked,
held
against
a
cheek.

Fingers

twitching
now.

Across
from
me,
a
spiked
heel
arcs
through
the
air,
 Such
an
odd
thing
to
do,
pressing
the
lips
together
and
closing
the

and
before
one
naked
thigh
slaps
on
top
of
the
other,
I
can
see
what
 eyes.

Autopsy
(Samuel Kahler)
Colours
au∙top∙sy
(n.)
 (Ian Kelly)
In
the
event
of
the
death
of
a
well‐known
hero,
it
is
often

the
heart
that
is
first
to
catch
static.

The
aorta
becomes,
 I
am
composed
of
aureate
memories:

first,
a
drinking
straw,
and
next,
a
periscope,
for
such
 

people:
 Flashes
of
colour
recall
me
of
architecture

(a) Who
expect
to
identify
the
innermost
secrets
 

of
such
a
popular
figure,
 Beneath
an
azure
sky
in
November

(b)
Who
remain
excitedly
stuck
to
an
 

adhesive
loam
resting
actively
at
the
floor
of
 or
some
colder
winter
month

a
violaceous
trench
constructed
from
endless
 

barriers
of
desperate
compensation,
it
seems,
 

(c)
For
whom
each
morsel
of
sustenance,
is
a
 Glancing
at
leaves
pirouetting
from
a
tree

bitter
reminder
of
mediocrity,
 

(d)
Who
nurse
gangrened
extremities
with
 Graced
by
autumn's
great
bellows,

gauze
and
scalpel,
and
again,
gauze,
until
 

what
remains
is
a
loose
pile
of
wet
scabs
and
 they
transcend
time
in
front
of
me

red
cloth
and
a
masochist’s
reinterpretation
 

of
M.C.
Escher’s
Drawing
Hands
that
cuts
 and
then
i
dream.

through
the
air
and
against
the
current,

(e)
Who
foolishly
wish
to
apply
blasphemous

science
to
figures
of
legend,
to
drag
the

departed
back
to
earth
as
punishment
for
an

orbital
life,
elevated
above
the
rest,

(f)
Who
hope
to
profit
from
these
exploits,

(g)
Who
cannot
resist,
which
is
why
this
ritual

is
aptly,
and
far
too
encouragingly,
named


“autopsy.”

 in and around the old house
(Slepterkov)

in
and
around
the
old
house,



the
evening
is
dark
and,
well,
the
porch
is
slanted


and
we
no
longer
understand
each
other—

the
night
is
vacant,


the
stars
are
not
there.






and
this
town
is
too
sleepy,




we
leave
the
milk
out
to
sit
and


thus,
spoiled
milk
sits
on
the
counter



the
trash
has
been
neglected
for
days


and
the
summer
fruit
flies


take
their
rotten
mouths
to
rotten
fruit




and
makes
the
fruit
more
rotten
still





a
bee
does
his
dance
on
the
windowsill
and


leaves
behind
a
trail
of
dead
copper


to
mark
his
place‐‐
that
is
all
inside





and
outside,
in
the
cold,
despairing
night,


the
porch
leans
and
threatens
to
crumble



into
the
silt
and
drown
in
the
dirt


the
night
is
clouded


and
gray
and
brown
and
ruinous,
still,


motionless.



No Title, (Jon Sedor) 

and
tomorrow
will
be
stiller
yet.



(continued)

 (continued)

And
the
moon
is
crying
far
away
from

her
beloved
ocean


the
waves
once
rocked


next
to
us
as
we
cast
our
empty
wine
bottles
into


the
expanse
of
black
water,
blanketed
by
the
night.





the
swigging
is
over,
not
a
drop
of
grape
venom
left





to
throw
down
our
throats‐‐
and
finally,


the
sea
drops
in
on
the
shore


to
say
to
the
sand:
‘

til
high
tide
I
will
see
you
not,
again


until
high
tide.


Parthian Horseman Takes A Break

(Ian Kelly)
No Title, (Michaela Stone)
mighty
as
the
poet

weak
as
achilles

ecclectic
like
a


sketch
of
spain.


 Drunk
i
just
get
so
tired

 (Slepterkov)
standing
in
the
rain

that
i
end
up
muttering

 Coming
home
on
the
ice
my
head
cracked
open
and
my
mind

like
some
Chandlerian
remnant
 spilled
itself
on
the
floor
my
heart
hammered
its
contents
through


 my
body
and
burst
my
major
arteries
alcohol
content
high
I
let
it

die.

The Academic’s Dilemma: cheesy
sentiment,
it
has
become
the
philosophy
by
which
I
choose

Education from the perspective of citizen students to
live
my
life.

(Kyle Bawot, Tristanne Davis, Lizzy Karp, Roy Rotheim, and Cat Stewart) 

*******

Maybe
it
started
when
I
got
into
trouble
for
fighting
back
against
 

the
big
bully
in
first
grade.

I
was
significantly
smaller
than
E.D.,
and
 Maybe
it
started
when
I
saw
the
smoke.
I
had
spent
a
while
carving

she
enjoyed
picking
me
up
and
throwing
me
around
wherever
she
 the
wood
carefully
and
diligently,
making
sure
that
the
drill
fit
the

so
desired.

My
bully
was
an
especially
forgetful
one,
so
I
decided
to
 base.
It
would
be
a
while
before
I
was
able
to
make
fire,
since
the

fight
back
by
hiding
her
books
in
other
people’s
cubbies,
knowing
 wood
had
to
become
smooth
and
blackened
before
I
could
hope
for

full
well
the
trouble
she
would
get
into.

When
it
was
discovered
 fire.
But
there
was
smoke.


that
I
was
the
culprit
behind
all
of
these
mysterious
misplacements,
 Earlier,
a
group
of
us
had
gone
looking
for
tinder;
we

I
was
taken
into
a
room
and
scolded
by
Mrs.
H
for
what
seemed
like
 collected
a
bunch
of
birch
wood,
which
burns
even
when
wet,
and

hours.
 some
seed
pod
fluff.
We’d
gotten
distracted
trying
to
identify
the


 I
spent
the
next
nine
years
of
my
life
at
a
school
that
valued
 different
plants
in
the
area,
deciding
if
they
were
edible
or
not.
As

competition
over
kindness.

A
school
that
taught
“The
Power
of
 we
wandered
through
the
forest
some
more,
we
tried
to
double

One,”
but
only
if
you
don’t
stand
out
too
much.

Year
after
year
I
 back
around
and
sneak
up
on
each
other
without
being
seen
or

attempted
to
hide
in
the
background,
not
wanting
to
be
noticed
in
 heard.
It
was
a
game
we
played
often,
always
trying
to
be
the

case
my
intentions
were
misinterpreted
and
I
was
taken
back
into
 quietest
and
sneakiest
predator.


that
small
room
by
Mrs.
H.
 A
whole
new
world
opened
up
to
me
that
week.
I
learned

Maybe
the
last
straw
was
nine
years
later
when
I
was
again
 how
to
make
fire
with
a
bow
drill,
track
animals
and
identify
their

scolded
for
standing
up
for
myself.

Good
intentions
were
 different
tracks,
build
a
shelter
out
of
sticks
and
leaves‐
which
was

misinterpreted
for
the
last
time
and
I
decided
that
enough
was
 quite
warm
the
night
we
slept
in
it,
weave
rope
out
of
a
grass
called

enough.

I
was
tired
of
trying
to
blend
into
the
background.


 raffia‐
which
is
strong
enough
to
use
to
weave
into
a
bridge,
hide

It
all
started
when
I
reached
a
place
where
I
was
able
to
 from
predators
by
blending
in
with
your
surroundings,
and
how
to

relax.

Competition
became
an
internal
force
instead
of
a
 listen
to
bird
calls
so
you
know
what
is
going
on
around
you,
even

paralyzing,
external
one.

The
results
were
astounding.

Because
 where
you
can’t
see.


everyone
was
concerned
with
their
own
goals
and
aspirations,
all
 I
learned
a
lot
that
week,
without
ever
stepping
into
a

petty
antics
seemed
to
fly
out
the
window.

My
last
two
years
of
 classroom.


high
school
changed
my
life
forever.

They
taught
me
that
doing
 

what
is
right
means
doing
what
is
right
for
you,
instead
of
what
 

might
be
right
for
everyone
else.

And
while
this
may
be
a
trite,
 *******



Maybe
it
started
when
in
seventh
grade,
when
during
Ms.
Griffith’s
 someone
I
wasn’t)
brought
me
to
a
place
today
where
I
can
see

parent‐teacher
conference
(which
was
promptly
and
urgently
 more
clearly
what’s
central
to
my
life.
Those
years
brought
me
(in
a

called
together),
I
had
to
sit
still
in
shame
while
she
explained
to
my
 long,
roundabout
route,
albeit)
to
an
exciting
point
in
my
life
when

parents
and
teachers
how
she
caught
me
cheating
on
her
math
 I’m
beginning
to
understand
what
it
is
all
about;
where
I
need
to

test.
“I
didn’t
cheat,”
I
continued
to
petition—I
couldn’t
defend
 search
and
discover;
where
limitations
are
generally
self‐inflicted.

myself,
but
I
refused
to
surrender
any
ground.
Despite
how
sure
 No
longer
am
I
on
solely
focused
on
the
future,
or
the
end,
or
the

Griffith
was
that
I
cheated
(apparently,
I
had
the
same
answer
as
 outcome—but
rather,
I’m
focused
on
the
moment,
learning
all
I

another
student
for
a
problem
that
has
millions
of
possible
 can,
when
I
can.


answers),
the
conference
ended
with
the
issue
unresolved—she
was
 

unable
to
convince
my
parents
and
her
colleagues
of
a
clear,
 *******

prosecutable
offense.
My
parents
(knowing
their
baby
boy
doesn’t
 

cheat)
listened
to
Griffith’s
case—I
could
tell—with
slight
irritation
 Maybe
it
started
when
my
father
told
me
not
to
call
them
“spiks”.

while
the
other
teachers
(who
all
generally
liked
me)
listened
with
 He
yelled
at
me,
right
there
in
the
middle
of
the
market
place,

what
looked
like
doubt.
Well,
the
truth
is,
I
cheated.
 where
the
whole
world
could
see
me
cry
and
hide
my
face
in

This
episode
was
not
the
first
(or
last)
time
I
found
myself
in
 embarrassment.
I
didn’t
consider
at
the
time,
that
the
majority
did

a
tight
situation
(due
to
my
poor
choices),
which
I
was
forced
to
lie
 not
speak
English.
Or,
“spik”
English
rather,
as
per
my
error.
I

to
and
deceive
my
way
out
of.
So,
maybe
it
didn’t
start
in
Griffith’s
 asserted
that
it
was
not
incorrect,
as
I’d
heard
my
grandparents
call

conference
(but
this
conference
notably
illustrates
my
academic
 them
that
for
my
entire
life.
And
after
all,
they
call
us
“gringo.”

His

disposition
at
the
time).
Throughout
middle
and
high
school,
I
 face
remained
serious,
and
I
knew
it
didn’t
matter.
As
I
followed

worked
just
hard
enough
so
not
to
arouse
worry
or
concern
from
 him
around
and
watched
him
browse
through
various
tables

my
teachers.
I
simply
went
to
class,
sat
in
the
back,
and
checked
 covered
in
strange
fruits,
hammocks,
pipes,
and
woven
fabrics,
I

out—I
never
needed
anything
more.
 realized
something.
He
scolded
me
because
what
was
an

Maybe
no
teachers
inspired
me?
Maybe
I
associated
with
 acceptable
form
of
expression
in
one
place
was
not
acceptable
in

the
wrong
people?
Maybe
public
school
wasn’t
structured
enough
 another.
We’re
all
people,
but
the
places
that
we
come
from
are
all

for
me?
Or,
maybe
I
just
needed
to
make
several
of
these
poor
 very
different
from
one
another
and
thus
our
expression
of
this

choices,
narrowly
escape
from
enough
tight
situations,
and
deceive
 people‐ness
becomes
very
different
as
well.
In
some
places,
like
in

and
disappoint
enough
loved
ones
before
I
started
to
figure
it
out.

 my
town,
people
eat
fish
on
Fridays
and
go
to
church
on
Sundays.

It
never
occurred
to
me
how
crippling
my
behavior
was— People
drive
cars,
take
their
children
to
school
and
take
themselves

not
only
was
I
not
controlling
my
education,
but
I
wasn’t
even
 to
work.
In
other
places,
like
the
Central
American
towns
I
explored

accepting
what
was
being
delivered
to
me.
But,
this
was
the
 with
my
father
during
my
early
childhood,
people
spent
all
day

beginning
of
my
discovery.
I
realize
now,
those
adolescent
years
 creating
works
of
art
to
sell.
They
gather
color
from
the
forest
in

when
I
was
coasting
by
(because—I
think—I
was
trying
to
be
 the
form
of
berries
or
insects
then
transfer
this
color
to
hemp
or

wool,
which
they
weave
into
elaborate
sweaters,
bags,
headbands
 “On
 the
 Importance
 of
 Choosing
 the
 Right
 Parents”),
 where
 the

and
tapestries.
Sometimes
the
children
go
to
school,
other
times
 extent
of
their
creative
thought
comes
from
learning
to
fend
off
all

they
help
their
parents
sell
their
art.
“Oh
the
Places
You’ll
Go,”
by
 the
other
such
creatures
who
didn’t
have
those
privileges
that
I’ve

Dr.
Seuss
has
been
perhaps
the
most
influential
book
of
my
life
in
 had
–
chai
wallahs
may
dream
of
being
millionaires,
but
they’re
not,

this
regard.
Travel
has
provided
me
with
a
kind
of
experiential
 nor
will
they
be.
My
privilege
has
allowed
me
to
contemplate
IT,
to

learning
that
is
unmatched
by
anything
one
could
find
in
my
 have
had
the
gift
of
IT
from
my
parents
and
my
parents’
parents
–

elementary
or
high
school.
It
allows
one
to
see
and
experience
life
 “Son,
 you’re
 nine
 years
 old;
 it’s
 time
 for
 you
 to
 learn
 to
 read
 The

with
people
all
over
the
world
who
pursue
love
and
happiness
just
 New
York
Times,”
my
Father
said
as
he
lifted
me
onto
his
lap.
IT,
for

as
we
do,
but
in
their
own
cultural
contexts.
Maybe
it
began
when
I
 me,
is
a
very
personal
thing
and
a
very
public
thing;
it’s
something

realized
this.

 that
 I
 feel
 alone,
 by
 myself
 (although
 never
 ‘lonely’!)
 and
 it
 is

Maybe
it
began
when
I
became
conscious
of
the
fact
that
 something
that
I
feel
when
alone
having
done
it
in
the
company
of

the
world
was
much
bigger
than
my
world.
When
I
began
to
 others
whom
I’ve
come
to
trust
(what
I
‘know’
I
know
as
a
‘student

understand
my
boundless
opportunities
in
life.
I
could
become
an
 citizen’).



actress,
a
scholar,
a
world
traveler…anything
I
wanted.
This
 So
 when
 did
 it
 start
 for
 me?
 Given
 that
 prerequisite
 of

thought
occurred
to
me
somewhere
around
the
age
of
15,
many
 privilege
 that
 I
 just
 mentioned
 (along
 with
 that
 special
 wise‐ass

years
after
my
experiences
with
cultural
relativism
in
Latin
America.
 legacy
 of
 another
 privileged
 ethnicity)
 maybe
 it
 started
 when
 I

After
this
time,
everything
I
learned
became
important
to
me.
From
 asked
myself
the
question:
“What
would
the
world
be
like
without

learning
to
fish,
play
the
flute,
to
sing,
to
studying
occultism
and
 hypothetical
 statements”?
 It
 grew
 when
 I
 saw
 a
 comic
 about
 Mr.

calculus.
I
came
to
view
it
all
as
pressingly
important
in
my
pursuit
 Natural
that
went
something
like
this:
“What
does
it
all
mean?”
to

to
understand
the
world
we
live
in.
It
became
beautiful,
instead
of
 which
 Mr.
 Natural
 replied:
 “Don’t
 mean
 shit”.
 Now
 shit
 does
 have

stemming
from
some
abstract
sense
of
duty
or
obligation
to
 its
 organic
 essence:
 it
 came
 from
 somewhere,
 it
 is,
 and
 it
 is
 going

society.
This
is
a
lesson
I
am
relearning
again
and
again.
Maybe
 somewhere
 else
 (all
 the
 time
 smelling
 in
 ways
 that
 offend
 and/or

then,
it
began
at
the
age
of
5,
or
15.
Maybe
it
is
only
beginning
now.

 portend,
 depending
 upon
 who
 is
 the
 smeller).
 All
 things
 (whether


 organic
or
not)
have
their
essences
–
the
it
that
I’m
always
trying
to

*******
 figure
 out
 and
 grasp.
 Like
 Descartes,
 I
 know
 that
 I
 exist
 because
 I


 can
recognize
that
it
is
I
who
is
not
sure
what
it
is.
And
so
my
it‐path

The
IT
that
I’ve
been
assigned
to
write
about
is
one,
in
my
opinion,
 (not
 being
 allowed
 to
 use
 the
 ‘e’
 word)
 is,
 in
 fact,
 the
 recognition

that
comes
from
either
the
luck
to
be
privileged
and
to
be
among
 that
I
can
know
with
complete
certainty
that
I
cannot
know
what
it

the
elite
who
are
dropped
into
a
learning‐pit
where
we’re
told
that
 is,
 and
 moreover
 that
 I
 have
 whatever
 is
 up
 there
 in
 that
 brain
 of

‘creative
 thought
 matters’
 (as
 I
 was)
 or
 it
 emerges
 from
 the
 mine
 (both
 the
 reptilian
 and
 the
 more
 recent
 components)
 that

misfortune
 of
 being
 born
 into
 other
 kinds
 of
 pits,
 as
 most
 people
 allows
me
to
know
with
certainty
that
I
do
not
know
what
it
is.
And

are
 (I
 had
 a
 professor
 who
 wrote
 an
 article
 called
 something
 like:
 yet,
 I
 wonder
 where
 it
 came
 from,
 what
 it
 is,
 and
 where
 it
 will
 go

when
 I
 go.
 I
 remember
 holding
 my
 Father
 while
 he
 died.
 At
 the
 i
drift
in
your
direction


moment
 of
 death
 I
 asked:
 “Where
 did
 he
 go?”
 And
 then
 I
 asked:
 

“What
is
the
meaning
of
the
word
he?”
And
so
the
quest
to
be
‘it‐ some
say
love
has


ed’
goes
on,
as
I
and
we
all
work
to
‘round
off
infinity’.
 a
penitent
quality


One
thing
I
do
know.

Life
would
be
easier,
alas,
if
we
could
 that
in
its
own
way


just
take
it
for
granted;
although
only
as
long
as
everyone
had
a
full
 it
works
on
impurities

belly
 while
 they
 allowed
 it
 to
 just
 be
 there
 and
 let
 it
 happen.
 twofold:

Otherwise,
 one
 is
 committing
 the
 greatest
 sin
 by
 not
 seeking
 out
 (as
a
sucking
mouth
over
a
snakebite

the
meaning
of
it
and
to
be
engaged
ceaselessly,
tirelessly,
and
as
 and

citizen
students
in
the
it‐ucation
process.
 as
a
filter
of
sorts)

and
in
time


neutral faces love
changes
us
for
the
best

(Samuel Kahler) makes
us
stronger

more
endurable

the
crowd
pursues
this
 


single
dream
 escaping
me
now
are

like
the
criminal
 the
heliums
of
countless
delusions



 at
which
still
i
clasp


the
most
serene
bedlam
 since
i
might
miss


ever
you
were
witness
to
 what
now
flies
away



 into
the
distance

as
much
as
i
might

 

like
the
fame
of

 i
lose
sight
of
them


playing
the
hero
 when



 the
sun


embarking
upon
the
quixotic
 drops
into
the
ocean

heading
forth
into
battles

 but

against
the
great
white

 a
trail
of
stardust


buffaloes
in
the
sky
 is
left
behind


 resembling
breadcrumbs

with
cold
pistons
for
legs
 

like
fog
 the
body
weighs
heavy

as
the
sabbath
sun

 Osierocony
on
the
horizon
at
dawn

 (Slepterkov)


as
i
discover

 Peter
Petrosky
was
twelve
when
he
first
held,
gingerly,
a

my
empty
spaces

 long
thin
sliver
stick
that
came
from
a
small
cardboard
box
which

a
terrible
darkness

 read,
“Marlboro”
and
“Smoking
Kills”.
And
when
Avery
Bishop,
an

far
worse
than
any
mirror
 eighth
grader,
explained
that
smoking
made
Peter
a
man
now,


fills
up
each
one

 
 Peter
reckoned
out‐loud,
“won’t
this
kill
me?”

and
i
wait
for
the
light
 
 And
Avery
Bishop
replied,
“of
course
it
will,
but
a
real
man


 is
closer
to
death
than
a
boy
is,
anyway.”

but
in
any
case
 
So
Peter
inhaled
like
a
chipmunk
chomps
seeds.
He
sucked

it
is
an
eternal
night

 the
smoke
into
his
cheeks
where
he
stored
it
for
a
moment
and

so
i
allow
myself
 tried
to
swallow
it
whole.
And
without
the
capacity
to
avoid

at
once
to
free
fall
 coughing,
Peter
Petrosky
spit
chunks
of
smoke
into
the
air,
trying,

at
last
 and
failing,
to
keep
his
lips
pursed
and
exhale
elegant
streams
like


 his
mentor
did.
And
Avery
Bishop,
who
always
laughed
at
his

and
down
i
plunge

 apprentice,
guffawed
for
an
hour
about
it.

For
a
very
long
time

into
an
ocean

 Peter’s
first
smoke
would
continue
to
be
the
catalyst
for
Avery’s

of
melted
wax
 laughter.
Then
one
night,
Peter’s
mother
came
home
past
midnight


 from
a
date
with
a
man
called
Rob
–a
Professor
of
Eastern

and
when
i
again
find

 European
languages
who
lived
with
his
wife,
a
stout
man
whose

the
surface
 bottom
was
flat
when
Peter
saw
him
naked,
once‐‐
to
find
Avery

i
realize
i
was

 and
her
son
in
her
kitchen
with
lit
cigarettes
in
their
mouths.
She

never
of
the
air

 beat
Avery’s
bottom
with
a
broomstick
until
he
was
swept
out
the

simply
born
into
it
 door
and
never
came
over
again.


but
i
am
buoyant
 She
rounded
on
her
son
and
slapped
him
red‐hard
on
the

and
i
have
found
my

 hand,
“Papierosy,
Peter?”
It
may
have
been
that
Peter’s
mother
had

constant
at
long
last
 said
more
to
him,
had
said,
shame
on
you
son,
cigarettes
will
kill


 you,
they
are
bad
for
you!
But
regardless,
Peter
couldn’t
understand

and
to
the
nearest
lighthouse
 her
very
well.
He
could
only
pick
out
the
Polish
word
for
cigarettes

i
whisper
psalms
as
 and
he
matched
it
with
the
slap
mark
that
reached
across
his

if
there
is
nothing
else.
 fingers.
From
time
to
time,
Peter’s
red
hand
mark
reappears
and

aches
when
he
hears
Papierosy.
His
mother’s
angry
face,
the
 Outside,
the
mothers
always
smiled
at
Peter
when
he

frustration
realized
in
tears.
Peter’s
mother,
a
poor
immigrant
from
 walked
by,
and
he
felt
them
thinking
of
how
sadly
misguided
he

Poland
who,
one
would
imagine,
really
wished
she
could
have
a
 must
be.
Waxy
head,
a
mother
who
doesn’t
care.
Peter
was

conversation
with
her
son
about
right
and
wrong.

 watched
by
those
mothers
who
clicked
their
teeth
when
they
spoke

And
Peter
didn’t
know
very
much
about
his
father,
they
had
 of
him,
because
his
mother
was
the
one
who
cleaned
up
after
their

never
met.
Peter
envisioned
a
bearded
fellow,
much
like
a
sea
 son’s
messes.
And
Peter
envied
those
sons
whose
fathers
were

captain,
who
was
too
busy
discovering
things
in
secret
places
 around
to
do
more
than
yell
at
them,
and
whose
mothers
made

underwater
to
meet
him.
What
he
did
know,
he
couldn’t
find
in
 them
cookies
after
taking
them
to
soccer
practice
on
Saturdays.
He

photographs.
All
that
Peter
really
knew
for
certain
was
that
his
 even
envied
those
sons
whose
fathers
were
only
around
to
tell

father
was
not
with
him,
and
he
assumed,
using
the
more
rational
 them
what
to
do
every
once
and
a
while,
to
tell
them
how
to
be
real

side
of
his
mind,
that
he
was
still
in
Katowice;
somewhere
near
 men
without
cigarettes.
Those
fathers
who
take
time
for
driving

where
his
mother
had
grown
up.
But
Peter
could
only
imagine
who
 lessons
and
the
mothers
who
were
beautiful
and
didn’t
have
jobs.

his
father
might
actually
be.
A
fuzzy
photograph
in
his
mind,
a
 Years
passed
and
Peter
Petrosky
watched
his
mother
lose

bearded
fellow,
a
sea
captain,
or
a
pauper?
Years
later,
Peter
would
 him
many
more
Avery
Bishops.
She
chased
all
the
Toms
and
Glenns

find
out
that
his
father
had
been
dead
since
he
was
two
years
old.

 away,
and
when
they
went
home
to
their
mothers,
filthy
from

While
Peter
knew
nothing
about
his
father,
he
knew
almost
 brooms
end,
they
were
all
forbidden
from
hanging
out
with
the

as
little
about
his
silent
mother.
The
wall
between
them
grew
 cleaning
lady’s
boy
ever
again.
The
boys
at
upper
school
took
to

thicker
with
the
years.
Peter
went
to
high
school
with
the
American
 teasing
Peter
because
of
his
cellophane
hair
–
bleach
blond
bristles

boys
from
the
suburban
community
of
Satchataw,
and
lost
all
 the
likes
of
which
they
had
never
seen‐‐,
his
too
dark
eyebrows,
his

ability
to
converse
with
his
mother
in
her
native
tongue.
They
ate
 sunken
cheeks
and
eyes,
the
olive
pupils
that
changed
to
green

silent
dinners
together
in
their
modest
kitchen,
which
was
part
of
a
 when
he
cried.


pathetic
arrangement
of
rooms
one
might
call
a
house.
His
 
Peter
Petrosky
was
a
locker
room
anomaly,
stuck
amongst

mother’s
place
was
a
great
source
of
discomfort
to
Peter
whose
 the
Christian
sons
whose
mothers
were
made
sick
by
the
concept
of

friends
all
lived
with
their
mothers
and
hardworking
fathers
in
 circumcision.
They
called
him
Stinky
Russian
Boy
until
the
middle

Satchataw
Proper,
a
community
that
had
been
rebuilt
after
a
 of
high
school
when
they
forgot
to
tease
him,
forgot
about
him

terrible
flood
that
Peter
wasn’t
alive
to
witness.
His
mother’s
house,
 altogether.
His
mother
continued
to
clean
their
sheets,
make
their

which
she
rented
from
a
Wealthy
Anonymous,
was
perched
atop
a
 beds,
and
empty
their
garbage
pails
while
they
could
pay
her
using

hill
where
the
swollen
river
never
reached.
They
rebuilt
the
 their
weekly
allowances.
Peter
Petrosky
felt
constantly
the
sadness

Satchataw
Community
in
two
months
and
four
days
out
of
prefab
 of
no‐mother,
no‐father
and
no‐friends.


boxes
with
rooftops
that
all
looked
the
same.
And
Peter’s
mother
 However,
for
someone
with
very
little
mother,
Peter
went

was
under
those
roofs
cleaning
more
often
than
she
was
under
her
 along
fine
with
all
of
the
girls
at
school,
in
front
of
whom
he
was

own.

 able
to
play‐up
his
sensitive
side.
He
looked
bad,
sure,
emaciated

Peter
who
ate
fishsticks
from
the
freezer
most
nights,
but
the
 Peter
thought
about
Charlie
often,
how
he
is
not
unlike

anomaly
that
plagued
him
in
the
locker
room
served
to
his
 himself,
keeping
a
secret
that
no
one
would
understand.
This

advantage
with
girls
who
thought
it
was
interesting.
Girls
who
 includes
Peter,
who
doesn’t
quite
get
why
any
man
would
choose

talked,
mostly
to
each
other,
about
their
fascination
with
his
 to
be
gay,
only
openly
in
front
of
girls
who
talk
to
each
other.
Peter

enigmatic
being
and
his
strange
silence.
“Is
it
true
he
rides
a
 overheard
it
all.
He
felt
obligated
to
keep
Charlie
Winston’s
secret

motorcycle
to
school?”
“A
bike?
Maybe
not,
but
it’s
certain
he
 and
Charlie,
perhaps
out
of
gratitude,
perhaps
to
avoid
being

speaks
several
languages!”
 blackmailed—kicked
off
the
team—only
gossiped
with
girls
about

Peter
did
not
speak
much
at
all
to
anyone.
It
was
not
that
 Peter’s
penis.



he
found
his
own
words
to
be
clumsy,
but
rather
that
he
did
not
 Peter
also
thought
about
Anna‐Faye
often,
especially
since

much
like
talking
to
people,
even
girls,
lest
his
costume
disintegrate
 she
returned
from
the
summer
vacation
before
eleventh
grade
with

and
reveal
his
true,
boring
and
non‐dangerous
self.

He
learned
 longer
red
hair
and
big
breasts.

He
quite
liked
her,
and
was
sure
her

from
this
that
girls
don’t
like
it
much
when
boys
talk,
and
that
real
 eyebrows
were
the
proper
shade
for
her
face.
Her
eyes
were

men
listen.
And
if
a
girl
likes
you
enough,
she
will
ask
you
about
 emerald
beads
with
no
science
or
reason
behind
them.
Peter
fell
in

yourself,
but
its
best
to
just
listen.
The
more
he
listened
the
more
 love
with
her
and
forgot
all
the
rules
and
all
the
other
girls.
She

he
learned;
that
girls
talk
to
each
other
about
the
ones
they
like,
a
 spoke
to
him
once
in
English
class,
asking
for
a
sheet
of
loose‐leaf.

bra
can
be
undone
with
one
hand,
a
nipple
should
not
be
pinched
 He
drooled
on
his
hand
just
as
she
turned
around
saying,
“thanks”.

too
hard,
that
the
neck
is
a
nice
place
to
kiss,
to
have
kissed
by
 Peter
thanked
her
back,
out
loud
for
not
having
seen
him
salivate,

someone,
socks
shouldn’t
be
on
during
sex,
and
as
far
as
love‐bites
 and
wrote
her
name
one
hundred
times
in
his
notes
for
the
day.


and
hickies
are
concerned,
girls
always
talk.

 What
is
poetry?
Anna‐Faye.
What
is
prose?
Anna‐Faye?

Gossip
had
been
Peter’s
only
connection
to
those
around
 What
was
the
reason
for
the
Russian
Revolution,
the
fall
of
Troy,

him.
He
found
out
by
simply
listening
quietly
behind
his
open
locker
 the
death
of
Caesar,
the
enslavement
of
the
Jews
to
build
the
great

door
that
the
girls
at
Sachataw
Upper
School
all
wanted
to
know
if
 pyramids,
the
purpose
of
Bar
Mitzvah,
of
manhood?
Anna‐Faye.

the
half‐closet
homosexual
spy,
Charlie
Winston—captain
of
the
 Anna‐Faye,
the
answer
to
every
question.
Peter
loved
her.
There

football
team—was
right
about
his
locker
room
peek
at
Peter
after
 was
no
one
else,
the
trees
whistled
her
name
in
the
night,
the
choir

gym
class,
“it’s
interesting,
like
a
rocket
ship,
do
you
think
that
 from
the
church
down
the
street
sang
her
name
like
Peter
wished

makes
him
queer?”
he
confides
to
sympathetic
cheerleaders
whose
 to
scream
it
from
the
roof
of
his
black,
ugly,
shameful
house.
Her

mothers
all
thought
that
Charlie
was
a
respectful
gentleman,
“not
 name
was
engraved
in
the
ceiling
of
his
bedroom.
Anna‐Faye
in
the

that
I’d
have
him
over,
I
mean
his
mother
does
my
laundry”.
But
 timbers
and
rafters,
Anna‐Faye
in
the
window,
Anna‐Faye
in
the

Anna‐Faye
explains
that
she
heard
all
Jewish
boys
have
it
done
 tiles
of
the
bathroom
floor.
One
should
only
have
Anna‐Faye,
he

when
they
are
babies,
so
they
can’t
remember
a
thing,
and
Charlie
 thought,
a
man
would
not
dare
touch
her,
he
would
only
protect

hangs
his
head
low,
sighing
something
about
not
seeing
Peter
in
 her
from
this
ruinous
and
hateful
world!
In
the
bathroom
mirror

church
for
a
reason.

 Peter
saw
the
face
of
Charlie
Winston
placed
onto
his
body,
Anna‐
Faye
trusts
Charlie
Winston,
he
would
never
harm
her,
and
Peter
 glow,
the
dewy
kind
that
Peter
wondered
about
most
nights
these

admired
this
and
wondered
if
they
might
some
how
work
 days—“Excuse
me,”
she
turned
to
him,
“did
you
want
this,
Peter?”


collaboratively
to
take
care
of
her.

 

At
first,
poor
Peter
was
so
in
love
that
he
could
not
bear
to

see
her.
Every
day
that
passed
without
Anna‐Faye
made
him

anxious,
a
sensation
he
could
not
control,
one
that
made
him
jump

in
his
sleep
like
falling
down
stairs.
He
kissed
his
mother
on
the

forehead
after
she
cooked
him
dinner
on
Sundays,
he
helped
her

clean
up
the
house
a
bit,
much
to
her
delight.
Peter
hoped
that
by

doing
this
he
would
be
rewarded
by
some
karmic
purpose
out
of
his

own
control.

The
stars
and
the
cosmos
will
align
themselves
to

spell
out
“Peter”
across
the
sky
above
her
house.

 

Whether
or
not
this
actually
happened,
Peter
was
unsure,

(he
had
always
known
that
some
things
were
out
of
a
man's

control)
but
a
week
that
seemed
like
a
century
later,
Peter
Petrosky

found
himself
facing
her
in
a
group
table
in
chemistry
class.

Peter

had
little
way
with
Anna‐Faye,
who
was
so
strikingly
beautiful
that

he
forgot
his
lab
notebook
in
class
attempting
to
rush
out
after
her.

On
his
way,
he
knocked
open
a
beaker
of
sodium‐chloride,
(which

laced
his
old
black
boots
white
when
it
finally
dried)
and
shloshed

his
way
hurriedly
out
of
the
room
after
her.


When
he
finally
caught
up
with
Anna‐Faye,
she
was
at
the
water

fountain.
Her
lips
were
pursed,
reminding
Peter
of
Avery
Fisher.

Papierosy,
Peter?
His
hand
seared,
a
warning
he
must
have

ignored,
Anna‐Faye
was
going
to
be
different.
He
stood
behind
her

and
watched
as
she
held
her
hair
back
to
keep
it
out
of
the
water.
 Rocketship, (Skip Suva)
Her
tiny
throat
bobbed
up
and
down
with
shameless
gulps
as
Peter

got
closer,
wanting
to
hear
her
think
about
drinking.
The
throat
 She
knew
his
name,
“I
wanted
to
drink,”
his
tongue
tripped

closes
and
opens,
in
and
out,
in
and
down.
Onto
the
tongue,
down
 itself.
His
head
whirred
and
his
eyes
wandered.

the
neck,
into
the
belly,
out
through
the
skin,
the
simplistically
pure
 “Weirdo,”
she
said
walking
away
“Peter,
you’re
a
strange

perfection
of
Anna
Faye!
Water
is
all
it
takes,
it
gives
Anna‐Faye
her
 person,”
but
she
had
said
it
with
a
smile.
That
wonderful,
white

smile
belonged
to
her
in
a
way
that
Peter
felt
his
own
smile
did
not.

 reminded
Peter
of
tentacles
wrapped
around
the
white
transparent

He
felt
his
feet
leave
the
ground
as
Anna‐Faye
walked
to
converse
 skin
below
the
seams
of
his
khaki
shorts.
Peter
imagined
his
own

with
Charlie
Winston.
Suddenly,
Peter
understood
why
Charlie
was
 adult
body,
fully
formed
and
coated
lightly
in
a
white
fur.
Someday,

gay
in
front
of
girls.
 Anna‐Faye
will
comb
her
fingers
through
the
white‐fingered
chest,

Anna‐Faye
was
not
entirely
opposed
to
dinner
and
a
movie
 in
the
master
bath
of
a
future
pre‐fab
house
in
a
community
like
the

with
Peter.

And
Peter
really
wanted
to
go
see
a
movie
and
have
 great
Satchataw.

dinner
with
Anna‐Faye,
not
like
the
other
girls
with
whom
dinner
 Her
parents
did
not
pull
her
aside
after
dinner
to
discuss

and
a
movie
meant
that
he
had
a
free‐house
in
which
he
could
have
 Peter.
They
hadn’t
even
realized
that
he
was
the
son
of
several
of

them
over
and
see
them
naked
in
any
room.
Once
he
had
wooed
 their
friends’
cleaning
lady.
Peter
felt
in
his
heart
that
Anna‐Fay
and

the
daughters
of
Mazzoni,
Smith,
Jones,
Sharp,
and
others,
he
had
 her
entire
family
were
perfect,
different
from
the
other
families
he

to
meet
their
parents,
who
always
rejected
him
for
some
reason
or
 had
been
forced
to
meet.
When
they
were
excused,
she
showed

another—“the
cleaning
woman’s
son,
really,
child
what
is
wrong
 him
her
room:
pink,
a
coat
of
paint
that
hadn’t
changed
since
she

with
you?”
Peter
heard
one
father
say
behind
a
closed
door.
 was
in
diapers.

She
showed
him
old
photos:
extended
family,
ex‐
Peter,
who
became
used
to
this
specific
brand
of
rejection,
 boyfriends‐‐
“It
didn’t
work
out,
and
you
can
tell
from
this
photo

had
a
hard
time
agreeing
with
Anna‐Faye
when
she
said
he
must
 see?”‐‐
she
pointed
to
two
photos
each
featuring
her
in
the
arms
of

come
in
and
meet
her
parents
before
they
went
out
on
a
date.
The
 tall
anonymous
boys,
“it’s
the
way
they
hold
me,
see,
like
they
are

house
on
331
West
Riverdale
Street
was
grey
with
green
shuttered
 about
to
fall
asleep
on
me.”
Peter
didn’t
think
this
was
a
bad
thing,

windows,
a
roof
that
looked
the
same
as
all
the
roofs
Peter
had
 rather
a
feeling
between
two
people
he
might
call
comfortable.

seen
all
his
life.

He
walked
over,
(Satchataw
was
the
kind
of
town
 As
the
weeks
went
by,
Anna‐Faye
had
Peter
over
for
dinner

one
could
walk
across
in
five
to
ten
minutes)
rang
the
doorbell,
 several
more
times.
He
learned
to
love
his
new
family,
the
way
his

which
croaked
an
alarming
sound.
A
tall
handsome
figure
appeared
 new
mother
cooked,
the
way
his
new
father
took
an
entire

at
the
door,
Christ
hanging
blatantly
at
his
chest,
“you
must
be
 Saturday
to
teach
Peter
how
to
drive
stick.
On
Christmas,
which

Peter,
come
in.”
No
father
had
ever
smiled
at
Peter
this
way,
and
it
 Peter
had
never
taken
seriously
before,
his
new
mother
bought
him

made
his
chest
swell
with
an
unidentifiable
sensation
one
might
 a
gift‐‐
new
black
boots.
She
said
she
liked
Peter’s
sense
of
style,

liken
to
pride.
He
spotted
Anna‐Faye
watching
him
from
the
 but
that
his
boots
needed
to
be
replaced,
“that
salt
just
won’t
do!”

second
floor
landing,
which
all
the
houses
in
Satchataw
had.
 Peter
was
pleased
to
know
that
Anna‐Faye
had
told
her
how
they


They
did
not
go
to
the
movies.
Instead
they
had
a
home‐ had
met
after
chemistry
class.
He
was
happy
to
hear
Anna‐Faye
ask

cooked
meal
at
a
round
table
in
the
family’s
proper
dining
room.
 questions
over
the
telephone
like
“Mommy
wants
to
know
if
you’ll

Anna‐Faye’s
mother,
a
smart
woman
from
a
big
city,
seemed
to
like
 come
to
church
with
us”
or
“Daddy
says
he’ll
teach
you
to
drive
in

Peter.
She
was
a
redhead,
like
her
daughter,
while
Anna‐Faye’s
 his
car.”


father
was
pure
white
from
head
to
toe.
White
hair
and
white
 Daddy.
Father
of
mine
will
teach
me
to
drive.
The

eyebrows,
the
white
coated
arms
glistened,
one
million
hairs
that
 horsepower
will
be
mine,
the
control,
the
total
power
of

combustion
and
fossil
fuels
running
on
bloated,
muscular
legs.

 felt
an
unsettling
sensation
coupled
with
an
increasingly
strong

Peter
went
to
church
with
the
family
after
driving
lessons
early
one
 desire
to
pay
closer
attention
to
her
father’s
steps
not
four
feet

Sunday
where
he
came
to
understand
the
story
of
Jesus
Christ,
son
 ahead
and
avoid
the
conversation
he
knew
Anna
Faye
wanted
to

of
God,
who
not
unlike
Peter,
was
a
Jew
before
he
knew
he
was
not.
 have,
“I
mean,
is
it
me?
Just
tell
me
Peter
I
won’t
be
mad,”‐‐walking

And
Peter
learned
why
Anna‐Faye’s
white
father
wore
the
crucifix,
 lessons,
the
rhythmic
strength
that
compels
him
forward
with
ease

why
all
the
church
fathers
did.
A
man
is
the
great
protector
of
his
 on
the
pavement,
suddenly
so
fascinating.
The
tangible
clicking
of

house,
his
daughter
and
his
lovely
wife.
He
cannot
rely
on
anything
 the
wooden
heel,
the
perfect
shine
of
the
brown
leather
amicably

of
this
world
to
guide
or
assist
him.
The
only
aid
a
man
might
 glistening.
The
fringe‐tongue
of
the
mouth
of
his
shoes
swallows

receive
in
his
divine
practice
of
protection
is
that
of
Him,
the
Holy
 his
feet
up
to
his
ankles
and
continue
to
bounce
along
in
dynamic

Father.

This
is
how
it
is
done,
only
Jesus
and
God
could
save
a
man
 euphoria!—“Peter
are
you
listening?

Brand
new
Doctor
Martins,

from
this
life,
but
he
must
prove
his
devotion
to
his
one
 black
jaw‐crushers.


protectorate,
apprentice
to
the
ultimate
man.
Man
made
in
God’s
 
 “Peter?”
he
was
back
in
his
own
shoes,
very
suddenly,

image,
man
serving
Him
and
his
family
selflessly.

 feeling
the
push
of
the
pavement
upwards
from
beneath
his
soles.

When
his
newly
acquired
family
took
evening
walks
 He
was
listening,
he
was
trying
not
to,
but
he
was
always
a
man

together,
he
learned
to
hold
Anna‐Faye
around
the
waist
the
way
 who
listened.


his
new
father
held
his
new
mother.
Peter
had
never
been
happier
 “I
don’t
want
to
rush,
Anna‐Faye,
you’re
special
to
me.”


in
his
life.
His
shoes
were
new,
and
he
had
no
idea
that
his
mother
 He
was
lying,
but
had
little
understanding
as
to
why.
He

wouldn’t
be
able
to
afford
such
shoes
in
her
lifetime.
With
new
 certainly
loved
Anna‐Faye,
her
eyes
are
especially
endless
when
she

shoes
came
random,
new
pairs
of
jeans,
socks
without
holes,
a
 looks
at
me
like
that,
the
milky
manipulation
in
the
whites
of
her

poster
of
the
Doors
for
his
bedroom
at
his
real
mother’s
house,
 eyes,
the
innocent
dream
of
her
pupils.
He
meant
what
he
said,

which
he
rarely
even
entered
anymore.
 Anna‐Faye
was
special
to
him,
that
much
hadn’t
been
artificial,
but

He
loved
how
lenient
Anna‐Faye’s
parents
were,
letting
him
 he
could
not
lose
the
feeling
of
guilt
for
not
having
answered
her

sleep
over
on
the
couch,
not
calling
him
the
cleaning
lady’s
kid,
or
 question
directly.
His
insides
throbbed
dully,
a
nasty
bug
that

Stinky
Russian.
They
let
Peter
know
that
he
was
part
of
the
family
 contaminates
your
digestive
track,
an
especially
difficult
sensation

and
that
they
loved
him.
Peter
was
the
adopted
son,
Anna‐Faye’s
 to
ignore,
especially
when
in
the
company
of
others.
Preserve
the

brother
and
lover.
After
being
afforded
room
and
board
for
several
 white
purity
of
Anna‐Faye
as
the
happy
click‐clack
of
the
tassel‐
months
in
a
row,
Peter
felt
as
though
he
was
becoming
part
of
the
 tongued
loafers
leads
the
steady
march
towards
the
comfort
of

very
walls
of
the
house
he
had
never
dreamed
he’d
be
welcome
in.
 home.


Meanwhile,
Anna‐Faye‐‐
a
most
beautiful
artifact,
the
result
of
 

well‐decorated
upbringing—began
to
grow
impatient
with
Peter.
 
 It
was
nighttime
when
Peter
woke
suddenly
and
found

And
Peter
knew
why,
she
had
explained
it
to
him
one
night
while
on
 himself
spread‐eagle
on
the
blue‐corn
living
room
carpet.
The

one
of
the
now
ritualized
after‐dinner
neighborhood
walks.
Peter
 moon
watched
him
through
the
house’s
skylight
eyes
and
Peter

stared
back,
completely
awake
and
aware.
The
lights
were
all
off,
 and
looking
straight
ahead
at
the
door.
An
odd
tickling
walked

and
paralyzed
Peter
watched
the
steady
moon
gaze
enviously
from
 about
Peter’s
lower
back
reminding
him
of
the
time
he
saw
the

outside
of
the
window,
casting
its
rays
down
into
the
house,
 professor’s
buttocks
in
his
mother’s
bedroom.
The
tingling
began

wanting
in.
The
cold
wind
hissed
and
tried
to
squeeze
its
entirety
 to
wrap
itself
around
Peter’s
middle
as
a
belt
and
Peter
tried
to
say

inside
through
a
gap
under
a
door
or
a
window
left
open
just
 something.


enough.
When
it
became
frustrated,
it
howled
whooooo
at
Peter
 
 But
somehow
he
couldn’t
find
anything
to
say.

His
mind

and
shook
at
the
front
door
indignantly.
A
house
like
this
is
no
place
 raced
with
utter
confusion.
An
unsettling
curiosity
grew
swollen

for
a
faceless
guest
like
the
Satchataw
gust.
Sitting
on
each
 within
his
intestines.
He
felt
the
draft
bite
at
his
heels
willing
him
to

rooftop,
it
waits
everywhere
perched
all
the
time,
on
the
same‐ step
forward.
The
pit
of
his
stomach
lurched
forward
out
of
Peter’s

looking
rooftops,
looking
for
someone
to
answer
its
question.
But
 body
while
his
tingly
belt
spread
to
his
limbs,
making
him
heavy.

Peter
didn’t
know
who,
nor
did
he
know
why
he
told
the
wind
to
 Unable
to
do
or
say
anything,
Peter
examined
his
shirtless

find
another
place
to
stay.
It
would
persist
no
matter
what.
It
would
 abdomen
for
the
source
of
the
electric
pulsations
within
but
found

slowly
trickle
in
to
drown
the
living
room
in
an
ocean
of
blue‐cold.

 nothing.
His
bare
belly,
concave
and
exposed,
could
not
offer
him

A
bitter
yet
inevitable
winter
month.

 an
explanation.

“Charlie,”
Peter
found
his
voice
finally,
“what
are


 Peter
stood
up,
seeking
higher
ground
or
the
warm
 you
doing
here?”

company
of
an
extra
blanket.
Upstairs,
a
light
shone
behind
Anna‐ 
 Anna‐Faye
stood
up
and
walked
over
to
Peter,
hushing
him

Faye’s
door.
Still
awake?
What
part
of
the
night
has
you
sleepless,
 with
a
kiss.
Once
again,
Peter
was
unable
to
speak.
Peter
in
shorts,

Anna‐Faye?
Do
you
lie
awake
thinking
of
how
the
wind
will
come
 barefoot
and
utterly
revealed.
He
felt
a
feeling
that
reminded
him

for
you
through
a
forgotten
crack
in
the
wall?
Peter
wished
to
hold
 of
guilt,
which
caused
his
knees
to
knack
and
knick
together,

her,
to
protect
her
glow
from
being
blown
from
her
white
skin.

He
 vibrations
of
subatomic
collisions.
Anna‐Faye’s
soft
bare
arms

stood
rooted
on
the
second
floor
landing
just
outside
her
door,
not
 wrapped
carefully
around
the
concave
nave.
impotent
to
deny
her.

listening,
barely
even
breathing,
torn
between
the
alluring
notion
 The
lips
of
Ann‐Faye
are
soft,
hopefully
they
will
stay
this
way

of
a
shared
bed,
and
the
fear
that
his
own
actions
would
remove
 forever.
Two
delicate
slices
of
summer
peach,
the
bottom
slice

the
special
element
that
made
Anna‐Faye
so
beautifully
 slightly
larger
and
just
as
juicy
as
the
top.
To
bite
into
the
summer

untouched.
Rooted
to
the
grassy
carpet
outside,
staring
Anna‐ peach
means
greedily
sucking
it
dry
to
the
pit.
Peter
wanted
her
to

Faye’s
door
in
the
face.
Peter
admired
the
confident
door,
the
 stop
tempting
him,
to
agree
that
some
things
are
private
but
he

mighty
wooden
protector,
an
unimportant
gentleman
who
always
 was
so
consumed
by
her
kisses
that
he
was
left
paralyzed.
He

offered
a
welcoming
handshake
upon
Peter’s
arrival.

 looked
at
Charlie
Winston
who
still
sat,
unmoving
on
the
bed,
his


 He
opened
the
door
gently
and
was
greeted
by
a
faint,
 eyes
blank
beads
of
black.
And
Peter’s
mind
moved
about
in
his

orange
light
emitted
by
a
scarf‐covered
lamp
onto
the
faded
pink
 skull
willing
him
to
step
away,
What
if
Anna‐Faye’s
father
comes

walls.
Anna‐Faye
sat
cross‐legged
on
her
bed
and
Peter
was
 bursting
in?


shocked
to
see
Charlie
Winston
right
there
with
her,
his
eyes
awake


 Peter
was
completely
naked
suddenly
and
he
shut
his
eyes
 who
hung
his
head
in
shame,
unable
to
watch.
Say
something,
Dad!

in
a
tight
blink
that
made
his
nose
wrinkle.
He
felt
himself
reclining
 Help
me
get
them
off!

on
to
the
bed,
led
by
the
perfect
Anna‐Faye.
He
felt
Charlie
 Behind
closed
lids,
lost
in
the
infinite
dark,
Peter
was

Winston’s
body
beside
his
own,
and
felt
a
nervous
jolt
of
curious
 unaware
of
the
sun
creeping
slowly
upwards.
His
body
too
was

excitement
in
the
pit
of
his
belly.
He
rendered
himself
permanently
 unaware
of
the
fact
that
it
was
still
in
the
living
room,
where
he
had

paralyzed,
giving
in
to
his
impotence,
Anna‐Faye
with
the
left
side
 fallen
asleep
beneath
a
large
and
fat
down
comforter,
which
felt

of
the
body,
Charlie
with
the
right.
He
felt
his
way
about
the
sudden
 enormously
heavy,
as
the
body
of
a
full‐grown
man.
He
sweated

dark,
his
lips
meeting
other
lips
in
dark
alleys
and
folding
valleys
of
 beneath
the
sheets,
beneath
the
crushing
weight.
And
when
he

cotton
sheet.
And
Peter
did
not
know
why
he
felt
okay
with
the
 wakes
from
his
humiliation,
the
lingering
sensation
of
Charlie

occasional
upper
lip
bristle
that
he
knew
belonged
to
Charlie
who
 Winston’s
lips
lapping
him
beneath
his
belly
will
come
out,
tangible

said
he
would
show
Peter
how
to
be
a
man.

I
have
already
been
 and
sticky
on
the
blanket.
Before
anyone
else
wakes,
he
will
rush
to

given
lessons,
Charlie,
he
could
not
say,
from
a
master
of
manhood.
 the
bathroom
to
remove
from
the
dark
green
blanket,
his
bright

I
have
always
had
these
lessons!
Are
you
going
to
tell
your
father
 white
stain.


about
this
Anna‐Faye?
He
won’t
believe
his
daughter
capable
of
 

such
a
thing.
Of
what
though?
Anna‐Faye
you
were
supposed
to
be

the
most
pure,
the
one
untouched
by
the
cruelty
of
men.
The
one

unscathed
and
inexperienced.
If
your
father
finds
out
that
I
let
you

do
this
to
yourself,
we
will
be
ruined.
Peter
thought
of
Anna‐Faye’s

father,
his
Catholicism
while
thoughts
of
homosexuality
whizzed

through
his
head
and
willed
him
to
stop.
So
he
froze
in
between
the

two
bodies,
motionless.




 The
door
to
Anna‐Faye’s
pink
bedroom
stood
ajar,

watching
them.
Peter
became
increasingly
aware
of
the
possibility

of
escape
but
when
he
tried
to
move
his
legs
he
found
himself

unable
to
budge,
to
change
to
position
of
a
single
toe.
Though
he

closed
his
eyes,
he
became
inexplicably
aware
of
himself
and
aware

of
the
additional
presence
of
an
intruder.
The
room
was
filling
up,
in

walked
the
coach
of
the
football
team,
who
watched.
The
boys
of

Satchataw
upper
too,
all
filed
in
and
watched.
And
in
too,
walked

Anna‐Faye’s
mother
and
his
own,
who
watched.

Finally,
to
bare

witness
to
his
torture,
in
walked
Anna‐Faye’s
white
haired
father

Hairy Rain Gods, ( Skip Suva )

Disconnect, (Jonathan Feudi)
Passing Through
(Ian Kelly)
Rumbling,
passing
through

Autumn's
fickle
pastures

Silence
from
the
coast

And
silence
from
the
coach

Where
the
man
sits
staring

At
the
miscible
colours
on
fields

Where
atlases
had
subtly

Prodded
and
pinioned
the
landscape

He
is
dead.

And
no
one
remarks
of
him

Concerning
his
pallor

The
train
continues
through
the
valleys

The
man
sleeps
in
billows
of
gold
light
like
grain

A
pale
iridescent
saint
against
the
sun

The
passengers
laugh
and
cheer
as

He
seeps
into
another
winter.

The Marionettes
(Leah Cohen)
Dickon
said
he
learned
to
read
palms
from
gypsies,
and
we

believed
him
because
when
we
didn’t,
he
lost
his
temper
and

turned
as
animal
as
his
da
after
the
Saturday
night
shows.

That’s

how
we
came
to
be
standing
in
a
circle
outside
the
music
hall
while

Dickon
read
the
lines
on
my
hand.

“An
‘M,’”
he
said,
showing
my
palm
to
the
four
other
kids.


“That
means
you’ll
get
married.”

 “I
will
not!”
I
shouted,
my
cheeks
growing
hot.
 The
O’Casey
kids
weren’t
allowed
on
any
account
to
let

“You
will!”
said
Dickon,
pushing
me
towards
the
girls
in
the
 anyone
play
with
the
marionettes,
but
after
Dickon
grew
tired
of

circle.
“And
probly
to
Mary
Burney
since
you’re
off
together
so
 reading
our
palms,
he
threatened
Daniel
that
if
he
didn’t
let
us
play

bleedin’
much.”
 with
them,
he’d
tell
Emily
Keating
that—and
then
he
whispered

I
had
to
keep
my
mouth
shut
because
Mary
was
right
 something
into
Daniel’s
ear
that
made
his
eyes
go
all
big.

Sure

behind
me.

If
I
said
I
only
felt
sorry
for
her
because
of
her
lazy
eye,
 enough,
Daniel
led
us
down
to
his
da’s
dressing
room
and
opened

she’d
never
teach
me
how
to
eat
and
smoke
underwater
like
her
 the
green
leather
trunk
where
the
marionettes
were
kept.

mum
did.
 Dickon
grabbed
the
marionette
on
the
top
of
the
pile.

It

“That’s
a
rubbish
way
of
reading
palms,”
said
Daniel
 was
Charles
Blondin.

He
practiced
pulling
his
strings
while
we
all

O’Casey.

“We’ve
all
of
us
got
‘M’s.

Look.”
and
he
held
his
palm
out
 watched,
making
him
walk
along
the
edges
of
chairs
and
tables
like

to
Dickon.
 they
were
tightropes.

Then
he
ran
back
to
the
trunk
and
grabbed

“Nuh
uh,”
said
Dickon,
grabbing
Willy’s
hand
instead.
“Willy
 another
marionette.


ent
got
one.

He’ll
end
up
like
his
mum.”
 It
was
the
Devil.

He
was
the
newest
marionette
in
Mr.

Willy’s
mum
had
never
married
as
far
as
we
knew.

It
 O’Casey’s
act
and
still
smelled
like
paint.
He
had
a
red
cloth
body

might’ve
been
bad
for
business
if
word
had
got
out,
but
she
drew
in
 with
cloven
hooves,
goat
horns,
and
a
black
face.
I
couldn’t
see
his

such
a
crowd
with
her
songs
and
stories
from
the
West
Indies,
that
 eyes
for
his
bushy
eyebrows,
and
the
big
smile
carved
into
his

no
one
ever
talked
about
it,
and
she’d
died
a
year
ago
without
ever
 wooden
face
made
me
go
all
cold
when
Dickon
put
it
next
to

telling
who
Willy’s
da
was.

Most
everyone
knew
Dickon’s
da
had
 Blondin’s
sweet,
painted
smile.

fancied
her,
but
Willy’d
come
out
just
as
dark
and
small
as
his
mum
 “I
dunna
think
we
should
be
doin’
this,”
said
Emily,
backing

had
been,
so
it
was
impossible
to
tell.

And
it
ended
up
being
 towards
the
door,
all
nervous
now.

Daniel’s
family
what
took
Willy
in
last
year,
anyway.
 “Blondin’s
goin’
to
make
a
pact
with
the
devil
to
be
the
best

Willy
snatched
his
hand
away
from
Dickon.
“I
have
too
got
 tightrope
walker
in
the
world!”
said
Dickon.
“Who’s
goin’
to
be
the

an
‘M,’”
he
said,
his
voice
all
quivery
like,
but
we’d
already
seen
he
 Devil?”

hadn’t,
and
he
wouldn’t
show
his
palm
again,
not
even
after
Dickon
 Daniel
made
to
grab
the
Devil,
but
Dickon
stopped
him.

threw
three
of
his
marbles
at
him.
 “No,”
he
said,
“Willy
should
do
it.
He
and
the
Devil
are
both
as
black


 as
sin
itself.”

Most
everyone
knew
Dickon
was
jealous
of
the
O’Caseys
 We
shoved
Willy
forward,
and
Dickon
thrust
the
marionette

because
Mr.
O’Casey
did
the
marionette
act.
All
Dickon’s
parents
 into
his
hands
and
told
him
where
to
stand.
We
stood
transfixed
as

did
was
dance
and
sing,
and
not
very
well
at
that.
His
da
used
to
 he
raised
Blondin
and
made
him
approach
the
Devil,
but
before
he

spin
plates,
but
all
he’d
been
doing
for
the
past
year
was
break
 made
Blondin
speak,
he
put
him
down
again.

them.

 “This
‘ent
right,”
he
said.
“There
should
be
Hell
smoke.”

 He
ran
to
Mr.
O’Casey’s
cigarette
box
sitting
on
the
table
in
 

the
corner.
It
glinted
all
bright
silver
in
his
hand.
He
pulled
one

cigarette
out
and
stuck
it
in
Willy’s
open
mouth.

He
searched

through
his
pockets,
found
a
match,
and
struck
it,
but
before
he

could
light
the
cigarette,
Emily
let
out
a
shriek.
Somebody
was

opening
the
door.

It
happened
so
quickly.
Dickon
fumbled
and
dropped
the

match
onto
the
Devil,
which
caught
flame
right
as
Mr.
O’Casey

burst
into
the
dressing
room.
Dickon
threw
himself
on
top
of
the

Devil
to
try
to
put
out
the
flame
and
hide
the
marionette,
but
Mr.

O’Casey
pushed
him
aside
with
this
ungodly
roar.
It
was
too
late
for

the
Devil,
though—the
match
had
singed
a
hole
right
through
to

the
stuffing
in
his
chest.

“Run,”
shouted
Dickon,
and
everyone
except
for
Willy—
who
sat
frozen
under
the
grip
of
Mr.
O’Casey,
the
cigarette
shaking

between
his
lips—broke
for
the
door.
We
didn’t
stop
running
until

we
got
to
London
Bridge.
Gasping
for
breath,
Dickon
crumpled
to

the
ground,
and,
dears
God,
started
in
crying!
We
tried
not
to
look

at
the
clean
streaks
the
tears
made
on
his
dirty
cheeks.
Finally
Mary

spoke
up.


“Dickon,
what’s
the
matter?
You
got
away.”

“It
got
me,”
Dickon
sobbed.
“It
got
me.
Right
in
the
heart.”

He
sat
up,
and
we
saw
a
singed
hole
in
the
center
of
his
shirt

showing
an
angry
burn
on
his
chest.

“D’ye
.
.
.
d’ye
think
it
means
anythin’?”
asked
Emily,

crossing
herself
all
superstitious
now.
We
stared
down
at
Dickon,

mouths
open.
He
looked
from
one
face
to
the
next,
waiting
for
 Private Stock, ( Samuel Kahler )
someone
to
say
something,
then
his
eyes
got
all
stony,
and
he

pushed
his
way
through
us.

“No,”
he
said,
heading
towards
his
place.
“No,
it
don’t
mean

nothin’,”
and
he
crossed
his
arms
over
his
chest
to
hide
the
burn,
 [the quietest animals… make the biggest noises.]
but
it
was
too
late—we’d
already
seen
it.