It’s the only choice to make
when all the world is watching.
The radiance wraps around you like ribbons,
you never knew its silk could turn to grit.
Keep smiling, Keep working.
The door was glinting in the dark,
promising to lead you down a vivid path.
No one told you the glow could blind.
No one warned you about
its opaque pressure.
Keep smiling, Keep working.
The choice was clear, but now
it hurts to look at.
You struggle to keep up with the incandesce with all of your might
but you fall
all the same.
You did not collapse in vain.
The shadows mean no harm.
Breathe in, Breathe out.
All-encompassing but not suffocating,
No one can see your cracks.
No one can see you repair yourself.
Breathe in, Breathe out.
You are not less here.
Reinforce your resolve, use the inky blackness
to rewrite your goals.
The door did not crumble because you needed to rebuild.
Take all the time you need
to reach for the knob once more.
The Hand You’re Dealt by: Rose Dobson, Acrylic on Canvas, 2016.
Wetback
by: Edgar Trejo
Baptized under a cradle of hands
And blanketed under an old t-shirt.
Like Moses, traveled to the Promised Land,
But by desert.
When he arrived no prophecies were fulfilled.
Hopes never came to be.
He was christened by his first nickname:
Everything you owned and everything you are
Has been left behind.
You will never be heard, you will never be seen-
That missing shoe you left in the desert.
Things are not how they were,
Everything you own, everything you are
Is nothing.
You are just a job.
“Make America Great Again,”
Our bastard brother.
There is nothing to be said, just give in.
We built the ditch they’ve trapped us in.
“Just let it happen.”
Our language arts teachers
Whispered after school.
No one heard.
We never spoke English.
People never change
Until the first cry is heard.
Slaves to “The Land of The Free”
Cowards of “The Home of The Brave”.
Postado by: Camila Tellez Pardo, Acrylic on canvas, 2016.
Temptation
by: Emilee Lawrence
Prop a couple of toothpicks underneath heavy eyelids,
Sweeten my coffee with Baileys,
I’m ready to start the day.
Dragging shoes made of lead,
I’ll get there eventually.
Begging the day to end
Are the minutes counting me down?
As if it matters.
Covering yawns with shining teeth.
But these teeth are not as lovely as they seem,
Just ask my bleeding tongue.
The anxiety seeping through my pores
Like last night’s fun,
Invisible to see with the naked eye.
The torn up tissue where skin meets nail tells the truth.
This understanding disguised itself as wisdom,
And slowly wrapped itself around my neck
Into a rope of delicate pearls.
The knot tightens
As the fog around the finish line clears,
And the cheers from the solace awaiting me on the other side
Grow louder.
The coaxing
Is becoming impossible to ignore.
How much longer
Will I resist the temptation
To knock over the wobbling stool
Beneath my feet?
Untitled 1 by: Lyvia Alvarez, Oil on canvas, 2016.
New Orleans Deadly Enchantment
by: Michelle Marie Chase
Dauphine’s golden trumpets blared for the crowd of drunken fools.
Skilled hands twirled me under twinkling lights on Royal.
Bourbon on our feet, whiskey in our veins.
Midnight we married at La Supreme Court.
Fortunetellers told him to leave me.
He chose to ignore them.
The morning came quietly.
I looked back.
He slept.
Forever.
Circles of Chaos by: Julie Wells, Acrylic on canvas, 2014.
Sitting Solitary in Starbucks
by: Allison Kennedy
Business men hunch; computer peckers, them, not me,
A display of evolution, the genes permutate
accompanied by the smell of burned coffee.
Behind, a can of tuna is opened. Ew, how can that be?!
Through the atmosphere it permeates.
The college student munches; smelly eater, him, not me.
Several languages are spoken over tea.
The indistinct murmur surprisingly resonates
over the smell of burned coffee.
Two graying, pot-bellied men chat casually
of their pasts and of their fates.
A chance meeting at brunch; nostalgic speakers, them, not me.
A sample platter is passed around for free
She offers, but I negate,
over the smell of burned coffee.
Sun sets as the light travels down my thigh to knee.
Several patrons come in with their mates.
Happy couples flirt; sacrificially satisfied, them, not me.
Inhaling the smell of burned coffee.
Alone by: Linda Gee, Transfer, pen and ink on paper, 2016.
Best Friends
by: Crystal Alford
“Ah shit, man, be careful with that.” I shook out my arm as the ice cold wind sent pricks down my now all too sensitive skin. Roger had been throwing a stick for some stupid stray and caught me square in the elbow; to top it off, now the mutt would not stop following us.
“Sorry man, you got in the way.” I looked on in disgust as he bent to rub the dog’s belly, seemingly unconcerned about its pus-filled scars or its flea infestation.
Roger simply shook his head at me. “I swear you hate anything with life beating through its veins. I think that’s why you love winter so much, everything is dead.”
“That’s not true. You’re fine,” I mocked as I lit up a cigarette. “Leave that thing alone, you’ll make it follow us to the cave and that mutt will want to stay there day in and day out.”
Roger did as I asked, shooing the pup away, and with some semblance of luck it hadn’t followed us to the caves. This has been our escape from the world for as long as I can remember, our fortress of solitude. We come here every day after school to escape life. Life at home for Roger is pretty much fine; well, as fine as things get in this town. His stepdad is still a drunk and his mother has never been good at hiding her dirty little secrets, but he does have a roof over his head and more often than not hot meals on his plate. I, however, am lucky to get a pity pack of cigarettes from Mike who owns the corner shop down by the lake.
“You know I could keep him, maybe name him Spike or something.” Roger was tapping that damn stick on the cave’s wall.
I couldn’t help my eyes rolling at his absurd remark. “Are you seriously still thinking about that mutt? Where would you keep it? Mark would go crazy if you brought a dog home.”
He looked out into the thick forest of pines; I knew he was secretly hoping the pup would emerge from its depths. “I could hide it.”
That one got a good chuckle out of me. “Please, Mark knows what goes on in every corner of that house. He may be a drunk, but he’s not stupid.”
Roger slowly stood looking out at the hills. The temperature was steadily dropping and you could see it in the way his red cheeks flamed across his face, his every breath recognized by the heat that escaped his blue lips and mixed with the chilled air. I looked down at my own hands, now numb to the touch. The only thing that sucked about winter was the limited time we could spend here, but the last thing I wanted was to build a fire and let all the hood-rats that go to our school know it exists.
“We should be getting back. I want to swing by Mike’s. I’m running low.” Roger silently agreed, dragging his stick behind him.
“You know if I don’t take him in he’s gonna die out here in the cold. I mean you sometimes help Mike out for a pack. Maybe I could help him out for a buck or two. If I pay for Spike, Mark can’t say nothin’, right?”
It was almost pathetic how hopeful his piercing blue eyes looked. “Look, man, that dog is already on the list for death. It’s not your responsibility.” Roger nodded a regretful agreement, starting off on the track back home. It took us thirty minutes to reach Mike’s. The sun was already starting to fade and night was quickly descending.
“Mike, my man!” I jumped on the counter next to the register twiddling with my last cigarette.
“No, Sam. I told you I can’t be giving you any more free shit.”
“Hey! It’s not free if I work for it.” I gave him my slyest smile hoping to dissuade his efforts of denying me. “Give me the broom and I’ll help you close the place down man.”
“You know Betty will have my head. She says you need to get yourself off the pack a day. Find a job. You’re sixteen now, you could work at the lumber yard. I hear they’re hiring.”
“The lumber yard? Damn, that will pay a pretty penny, right? I could pay for Sparky…”
“Stop with that damn dog Roger! It’s gone anyways. Lord knows if you’ll ever even see it again.” I looked over at him only to find him in the pet aisle looking at a leash. I shook my head but reverted my attention back to Mike. “Look, I can help you close, grab a pack, and then I myself will make it a point to speak with your lovely wife Betty and maybe I can begin to help out more often for the same reasonable price.”
“Sam, if you worked at the lumber yard you could actually buy food. Good lord knows your momma don’t feed you even when she is in town.”
I grunted at the blunt honesty. “Fine, if you don’t want my help I’ll apply at the lumber yard, but for the sake of all that is well in this world give me a pack before I have to hear Roger go on about a damn dog he is never gonna have.”
“Hey!” Roger began to object. I raised a hand of silence towards him not letting my gaze leave Mike. He was never good with continual rejection.
“Fine!” He pulled at his hair and threw a pack at me. “This is the last time! Boy, I swear if I lose my job because you want to become your deadbeat dad, I am going to personally kill you myself.”
“Ya…ya.” I pulled Roger by the arm leading him out the back.
“Hey! I thought you were going to help me close,” Mike yelled from the front of the store.
“I did not say what day!” I laughed at my twisted game with only a semblance of guilt at how gullible Mike was. If I didn’t make a point to at least ask Betty about the lumber yard he wouldn’t ever give me a pack again.
The stars were already filling the night’s sky, casting an eerie glow on the lake.
Home wasn’t too far from here, but I would never let Roger walk back to his house alone. I never knew if his mom was there or not, and when she wasn’t his stepdad could be a nasty son of a bitch.
“Come on, Roger, I’ll walk you to your place.” I turned to see Roger staring out at the center of the lake. “What is it man?”
“It’s Spike! Spike!” Roger shouted out waving his stick around in the air.
“That dog doesn’t know some random name you just pinned on him two hours ago.” I grabbed Roger, determined to get out of the cold. “Leave him there and let’s get moving.”
Roger yanked at his hand, taking a step out onto the lake. “No, I think he’s stuck. He’s not moving, he must be scared.”
Him and his obsession with the nasty stray were starting to fray my nerves. “Well, that dog got himself on the ice he can get himself off. It’s not thick enough for us to walk on, anyways. Leave him and he’ll find his own way back.”
“No man, we have to get him! I can’t just leave him there.”
“Roger, you don’t even know how to swim. What if the ice breaks on you? Then what?”
Roger ignored my words and continued to yell out a name that held no meaning to the dog.
The ice-chilled air was nipping at my skin, my jacket now serving no comfort. Roger seemed ill phased, his determination for the stray clearly not diminishing anytime soon, and as of now my toes were beginning to feel like phantom ants were feasting on them. “Fine. If I go get him will you please stop this nonsense?”
“If you go get him I will buy you your next pack, but I’m still gonna keep him.”
I shook my head and mumbled all the cusswords I knew to myself on my slow track to the dog. The ice was steadier than I expected for the beginning of winter. As I leaned in closer I could see what the holdup was. Sometime from us seeing him and now, Spike got a nasty slice of his leg cut up. “Come here, stupid dog. Come here, you nasty pile of fleas.” Spike let out a low growl and a bark warning me off. I guess he doesn’t like being referred to as a nasty pile of fleas. “Look, Roger wants to take care of the flea problem, but you’re on your own about the stupid part.” Two more loud barks followed by a quick snap at my hands made me take a few quick stumbled steps back. The loud cracks of ice caused by my quick movement were all too real, snapping through the air like a whip.
“Roger!” I could feel my stomach jump into my throat as I waited for time to resume. “I can’t get him and the ice is breaking.”
“Just grab him man you’re right there!”
“Bastard tried to bite me,” I objected.
“Well, quit talking mess and handle it,” he shouted back.
A giant smile played across my face at how well Roger knew me. I suppose ten years relationship would do that. I suppose it would also have you find yourself trapped on cracked ice trying to get a mutt you don’t even like just to please your best friend. I took one more step towards Spike, watching as the ice sent tiny cracks splicing out.
I took in a deep breath. “Spike, whatever you do don’t move.” I watched as his ears perked up, his tail wagging as he looked Roger’s way. Roger had taken a few steps out, shouting his name and waving that stick in the air. “No, Roger!” I shouted, but it was too late. Spike took this moment to listen to his name, darting out to meet Roger. The ice split and cracked, giving out beneath me. I cursed myself for leaving my jacket on as the weight of it filling with water pulled me further under, the ice cold depths of the lake taking all the air from my lungs. I fought all I could with my jacket, but it wouldn’t let me escape. I could hear muffled screams from the surface and see a light, but I was trapped. All I could think about was how I was going to lose my life over a damn stray infested with fleas, how God had determined that the infectious mutt had more potential to give the world than me.
I felt myself being lifted to the surface, a blanket failing at warming my skin, muffled words and bright lights. “Tired.” I think the words escaped my lips, or maybe just my mind, but I was tired in all aspects and all I wanted was to sleep. Roger shook me, urging me to stay awake. Something about a meaningless dog, but I couldn’t grasp what was being said; I had never felt sleep demand me like this before. It grabbed me with an iron fist commanding I listen, and what more could I do but listen to its warm voice that promised such sweet satisfaction?
Comptine d’un Autre ete: L’Apres-Midi by: Camila Tellez Pardo, Mixed media on canvas, 2016.
20 Years Ago (March 31st)
by: Jenise
March 31st, 1995 Tejana singer Selena was shot.
Twenty years later, I was surprised to find out my mother
Thought she was dying of cancer.
As news kept coming in about the woman who died so young,
my mother locked herself in the laundry room,
Sat on her new dryer,
And grieved.
Both newlywed, aspiring women,
Yet here one was sitting on her dryer in tears
because she thought she was dying.
Tejanos remember the day
Selena Quintanilla was taken,
My mother remembers because
It was discovered she was pregnant.
I was the cancer she thought she had.
Thinking about it now,
I fit both definitions.
I was a malignant growth of uncontrolled cell division in my mother’s body,
But also, I grew to be evil, destructive, and hard to eradicate.
I am evil because I caused my mother birthing pains,
And I drained my parents of money.
I am destructive because I deteriorated my mother’s health
for nine months and, after my birth,
I continued to destroy my parent’s peace
and my mother’s clean house.
I am hard to eradicate because of forensic science.
So many years ago today my mother thought she had cancer.
Perhaps she was right.
Most importantly,
Twenty years ago today my favorite singer died
And I am sitting in the open,
Listening to sirens and remembering her death,
As if I was here.
Ophelia by: Sandra Haubein, Acrylic on canvas, 2015.
Elbows, Elbows, Knees and Feet. Arms Over Your Head, the Marks on Your Belly
by: Texas L. Cook
My mouth tastes like the metal of a coin
My tongue follows the etching of a dead man, someone time has not forgotten.
It tastes like the blood I spilt from falling as a child on hot cement,
always falling over and dropping things, “a bull” my mother said, “A bull in a goddamn china shop”
I never knew what that meant.
The grass was always dead, the sun beat down on it so hard that it lost its color, turned brown
The heat was too thick, made me feel like an animal, the sweat stinging my eyes and my skin turning bright red
Home was morning time, chirping feathers very loud
and
home was when Sam would walk me home two doors down
and
Home was where the clouds were green, trees all around us, we could hardly see the sky,
and
home was so funny with “remember that time?”
and “how could I forget?”
Clumsiness crashed down on me, I have so many scars,
of course I remember.
“That pond we went swimming in every day?”
Yes!
We were not allowed in there.
“And when the cops came by, and we ran!”Yes! I still haven’t told my mother.
Thinking back like this makes me feel strange.And now my mouth tastes like blood.I cannot figure out why.Impermanence.But I rememberAnd my skin does too.
Ophelia by: Sandra Haubein, Acrylic on canvas, 2015.
Elbows, Elbows, Knees and Feet. Arms Over Your Head, the Marks on Your Belly
by: Texas L. Cook
My mouth tastes like the metal of a coin
My tongue follows the etching of a dead man, someone time has not forgotten.
It tastes like the blood I spilt from falling as a child on hot cement,
always falling over and dropping things, “a bull” my mother said, “A bull in a goddamn china shop”
I never knew what that meant.
The grass was always dead, the sun beat down on it so hard that it lost its color, turned brown
The heat was too thick, made me feel like an animal, the sweat stinging my eyes and my skin turning bright red
Home was morning time, chirping feathers very loud
and
home was when Sam would walk me home two doors down
and
Home was where the clouds were green, trees all around us, we could hardly see the sky,
and
home was so funny with “remember that time?”
and “how could I forget?”
Clumsiness crashed down on me, I have so many scars,
of course I remember.
“That pond we went swimming in every day?”
Yes!
We were not allowed in there. “And when the cops came by, and we ran!” Yes! I still haven’t told my mother.
Thinking back like this makes me feel strange. And now my mouth tastes like blood. I cannot figure out why. Impermanence. But I remember And my skin does too.
Pianist at the River by Martina Petrovic, photograph, 2011.
Future
by: Brittany Zambrano
As you highlight the phrase, I strike my yellow lighter
and flame up the head.
It burns all the way, as the yellow ink bleeds
through the page.
We are both fighters, holding tight to our future.
A yellow marker between your silk finger tips,
And a mellow bud between my stilled, chapped lips.
You race to reach the end, as I inhale
“straight and fast.”
