Contents Jeff Hill. .................................................................. J Tombstone Saloon, 1990 When Spring Comes To Lansing Lyn Lifshin ............................................................ 3 My Mother Who Can't Swallow Hating Pills, My Mother Wants More Demerol Jennifer Blackledge ............................................. .5 The Women In My Family Geoffrey Bankowski ............................................ 6 Losing The Night Kenneth Pobo ....................................................... 7 Tennessee Fangs Jack Salaga .............................................................. 8 Untitled Poem For Peter Brueghel Gail Gibson ............................................................ 9 Words For The Skinny Flint Man Christine Stephens ............................................ 10 Farts David Green ........................................................ 11 The Architect The Blind Man Christian Olson .................................................. 13 The Bicycle Song Elizabeth Kirschner ........................................... 16 Red Leaves Taylor Graham ................................................... 17 Changeling Paul Weinman ................................................... 18 White Boy Beer Peter W. Fong ..................................................... 21 Killing Two Birds · Michael Green .................................................... 40 Untitled Contributors ....................................................... .43 Tombstone Saloon, 1990 left Hill Drinking my vacation, a Jersey-talking cowboy brings beer and a puzzle of metal: handcuffs tangled through a pinched steel ring says, "solve this one pardner" A smoking woman three stools down wears my ex-wife's shoes on longer legs, tells someone "you'll be better for trying" The turbaned man bellies up with curried 1 hellos orders "anything!" and gets it I'm holding knotted steel waiting to learn the secret When Spring Comes To Lansing we'll get a car, roll a hundred joints, smoke them, one by one by thirty two, each number a fast-burning fuse, the air thin with smoke and stare, and lightning storms, and ozone wisp, and we'll be there, a thousand feet above our niche, fluttering hands, dripping wax, a burning moon above the clouds, and April only, man, if we could just stay that high all summer . My Mother Who Can't Swallow Lyn Lifshin asks when I think she's sleeping about the fish so many she says salmon, trout haddock on sale, their eyes open. What mother, I ask who and she sinks back in to the pillow remembers salmon and lobster days when nothing on her plate was left and she'd stand in front of store windows hating her stomach, belly 38 D breasts she pressed as a college freshman into her own skin till she flattened even 3 muscle wanting to be skinny enough to eat as much as she wanted, now wishes she could Hating Pills, My Mother Wants More Demerol when it hits even before i.v.'s she says how she loves me. All night she moaned "I can't, do it." Twisting, writhing arms double crossed around a pillow like someone punching a bag in rage or desperation Outside dark jade pines drip, on an island, comorants scream on network tv on a coast as far as what's ahead I wish. The Women In My Family Tennifer Blackledge tell me, don't take their crap smell as elusive as lilacs keep your tongue sharp & quick to cut through bullshit and straitjackets your eyes clear and distant they want my skin to be hard & cool as glass, unsmudged but i am made of ash lungs heavy with smoke and cannot tell them how i melted and fumbled how i once lived for the smell of sweat and honeyed platitudes cried on cue, clung weak as a vine how i almost gave away my name 5 Losing The Night Geoffrey Bankowski in the time i look away her eye-lid falls shut. a quiet span of cloud skin pulled over the rounded night sky. lashes, at the cheek's horizon, spread dormant like fallen trees. Tennessee Fangs Kenneth Pobo Summer in Cooke County: air, a series of webs. The boys were warned about the pond, but trees hang over it--you can be Tarzan, swear and nobody hears. Billy strips faster than the rest, climbs the tree, swings. Green water pulls him under. Water moccasins tighten to him. A farmer fishes him out. His friends never speak of it again, but each has nightmares for months--Billy's gone to Heaven, says the minister--he entered by fangs; even still, the town drains the pond. 7 Untitled Poem For Peter Brueghel Tack Salaga A cruel place the street. I once saw a one-armed violinist attempt a Wagnerian aire : he jabbed the bow into his esophagus and coaxed out the sweetest strains I have ever heard. The on-lookers, of course, requested: !camptownladies! and were disappointed when he didn't play it. A cruel place, the street. (somewhere a blind man paints a Modigliani nude Words for the skinny Flint man Gail Gibson I never run like you did, stranger racing the soot-covered bus into Buick city. Your cap fell twice off close shaved, spongy hair and the second time you only glanced over your shoulder then picked up speed without its added weight. Two blocks past the starting line your body straightened and slowed like an exaggerated waltz ending. You shook your head,· put hands on hips, steadied the defeated breathing in your stomach and your lips swore in my Honda's rearview mirror. I watched the race without stopping or offering a ride, just shifted into fourth gear not asking if you needed that bus to reach a lover or the birth of your child or to punch the time clock on time. 9 Farts Christine Stephens At first we held them inside all night while we french kissed and rubbed our blue jeans together. Gas bubbles squealed in our guts, high-pitched pleas for release-- and only after we wrapped ourselves in our separate beds would we set each delicious raspberry free. I II After months of sharing my twin bed, we lost our blue jeans and curiosity and shimmied around the livingroom in only underwear. Soon, you started farting on my head, and I'd tackle you, tickling- until we rolled away from each other inhaling the ghosts or our come and sweat. m You spent your evenings in the barn trying to catch a wild cat with a handful of cat show. I ate cans of Campbell's Split Pea Soup on purpose and pulled the covers over your head. Years later, I can still hear that voice I knew you would use on your children, "Can't you do that some place else?" The Architect David Green home: is in that pattern of nicks scarred heel by heel into wooden stairs, where I drop my suitcase in red carpet quiet and smile through the doorway of my father's office; at his back, curled over drawingboard; at those hands, that designed this house; and in the scrabbling of pencil over blueprint I hear what could have been the sound of Sunday mornings: when a father might slip into his son's room, scratch his cheek with stubbled chin until the boy woke, laughing. but he swivels around-(cid:173) a frown of concentration, offers an architect hand 11 and there is no heat of welcome in that small embrace of palms, no hint of perspiration; only the dry silver of lead-smeared fingers smooth as that hallway carpet, worn bald by the scuff of bitter words. The Blind Man for W. trying for goodbye-- the words seem dim, dissolved. behind the Japanese restaurant he brushes a finger across her mouth like a blind man groping gently to understand some message in braille; watches her watch sparrows gather in a tree; feels the carp flashing bright as desire in the bricked fishpool at his feet. they hover, slice without ever wrinkling the thin skin of surface water. The Bicycle Song Christian Olson I fell asleep to the sound of the highway and the last of the bicycle gang hollers whooping, shouting out their egos as they rode away. I awoke to the sound of the highway and the first of the bicycle gangs wired on sugar breakfast cereals, knocking on my door. We were commonly seen wheeling around the town, the block of Lexington and Arcade Avenue the drugstore comics bubblegum firecrackers matches and vacant lots. Our day was governed by the sounds the Goodyear zeppelin lawnmower of the city, blimp engine in the distance droning its presence Northwest it was heard and we like a foghorn. would follow, fast riders ahead and upward looking, sometimes rewarded with the sight of the balloon advertising great rubber glory rides, 13 egg wagon, the Rock n' Roll radio by the fat lady suntanning, Firecrackers blowing off in back(cid:173) yard alleyways. Across the highway those greased singing their jackhammer wrecking up workmen ball blues sometimes it was the only cylinder pound of old men mowing. The war clash and trumpet blast of the high school marching band and the ring of the bell on the Amish as the traffic zoomed, bad breaks screeching, carnival breezes blowing the music of the merry-go-round, sweet adrenaline drug love of a child, motorcycle gears groaning on as those big burly studded guys scattered us like dust and out of the town they went on to bigger city booms. But we, the bicycle gangs found our frenzy and out heartbeat in near- by places. Noises flashed like fire to spur us on, keep us moving with the wail like the siren we all chased one crimson bleeding afternoon. Angry ambulance siren, desperation cutting the ear drum, Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! it moaned, but it was more than Oh my God, it was Oh my Yawheh Zues Mohammed om sweating acid on the asphalt of our end- less road. We found it by the bicycle bridge, childhood catastrophe and the sudden silence of recognition. Jenny, poor pee the bed fat pig Jenny, the one we pushed and hit with sticks. She rode alone on her rusty old too big wheeler going too fast up and over the bridge to the downward slope, her front wheel wobbled and hit the railing, threw her over, knocked out hard against cracked down child trickling blood out of her the pavement, dusty hair. I saw the trickle move into a puddle and there was a silence in the sounds. It was all there, the shouts of paramedics packaging her away like a fish, but it was all nothing more than breathing, like Jenny's hard painful breathing, like my own easy pants. All meaningless heart beats and throbs that continued on as the siren began to wail again through the crazy beat of city dances and we, the bicycle gangs pedaled away screaming places to go throughout the recklessly descending evening. 15 Red Leaves Elizabeth Kirschner Light falls rapidly as estrangement . What passes between us passes away. Yesterday, I saw a leaf fall, red as a mitten . Sometimes the whole day comes down like that-- quiet and small. Sometimes I feel left behind. See how the butterflies lift themselves away: they do so gently as breath. Soon we will scarcely remember them. Soon I will hold nothing but red leaves in my hands. I will look at them with joy. Because all we are rivals this: red leaves tossed up suddenly, like fire, like breath. Taylor Graham Changeling She woke up one morning new. Stripped off the layers of bedclothes and sleep and brushed all the dark from her hair. Stepped out vivid and unfocused whirling too fast to affix an address. Slurring all the tempos of an unpronounceable music, she dances in her skin veils. 17 • ,hC..:ll'"MO • .a, ·.-~-... R.lR nm !ST TIME, WHIT!! BOY IS ASTCMSHED TO SE!! ycuoaaodvilrD UDdor alccid', - ~ UJ UJ ~ -·~ ~ ~ I. drimins ucpa you UJ UJ 2. peq,lc haw: "I"" & >< 0 ~ CD: the odvml,gca cl UJ t 4. :r: ~ ,pa1I •• pl.ycd &r bclla & md c:ojoycd mac wil!ibocrcl ... by dic.._micldl .... bocr~aogiva 3. WHIT!! BOY OOES TO DETOX CTl!S HCPINO TO RESTORE EXPECTATia-15 R.JRALKIES I ~ I >< 0 ~ UJ t :r: I ~ ~ & in:,a,rr.:. 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BOY OOBS ::i ::i trl trl ~I t::c ~I trl ~ :I: ::i trl t::c 0 .-< t::c trl trl ~ NOT OISC:OURAGFD BY SUJRRED ~ 0 .-< c. t::c d. trl la,g fiqpt drft'D o1ow1y fulllipljUllalxd top-caawct t::c trl .... u md ab, !hip IIOOIES. vaCIIS & S'J1JMBUNG WH!1l! BOY PLANS ON AIDING oa.BY SOUND .t 30 IN OROHR TO UPORAOE AMilR. ALCOHOUCS IN AMAZEMl!NI", WHlll! BO'Y GHfS UP Fat I MORE WARM BUD UI1! ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~~i ;;... ~f O I ~ ~ i!.fill .., ~ -; trl P:'.l ~ I . '""" 0 ~.,-~ :~ O:; ft. 1& ~3" 0 t::c P:'.l ~ .. I ~ DJ ~ I n i g ~ .-< ~ ~!~~ !l -i{ 1] h ;~~ t::c t8 ;i!.fil8 ..; .; • ~n 1 t 1'.; ~i!, ..; ..; trl trl ~ !-3 ~~ ou i!,f;l ~o • Killing Two Birds Peter W. Fong Ginny sat slumped in the passenger seat while Will drove them south from Boston. She tore a wedge from the lid of her take-out cup, and a thin warm mist of coffee rose up, clouding the windshield. She rubbed at the fog with the heel of her palm. The dawn was cold, even for November. She wished she had remembered a blanket to spread over her legs. the They had reservations on the morning ferry. This weekend on island had originally been planned for Labor Day, as a sort of homecoming for Will, who had spent the summer gillnetting salmon in Alaska. Ginny's parents owned a house in Vineyard Haven which the tourist season. Behind the kitchen were two rooms with a separate entrance where Ginny and her friend Sue had waited out the warm months. The house would be empty now until spring. they rented out during "Marvin Hagler grew up here," Ginny said. She did not point to the sign which hung above the pavement like the blade of a guillotine. Short gusts of wind shook the car as she sipped .. "The former boxer," said Will, his hands the wheel around a curve. He following turned to face her but did not smile. 21 Fong "He used to be something else." The road slipped straight again. Will's fingers relaxed as he looked away. into her cheeks. She cracked Ginny felt the heat of the coffee chum upward the window for a moment and let the cold air rinse her face. She could not have slept more than an hour or two last night. Will had looked so glad to see her at the airport that she had taken his forgiveness for granted. After all, if he had come home in September like they had planned, none of it would have happened. But he had wanted to stay another two weeks for silvers, then another month for crab fishing, and then the captain had offered to pay him to take the boat down to Seattle for the winter. When he called from port in Vancouver, she told him she had done something that she regretted, but it was nothing, or not that he should worry about. She anything had been saving her tips-and that's what mattered. With the money from his fishing they could take a long slow trip, take their time about settling down. They had planned it together and it would still work. She told him all that and the line went quiet; his voice seemed to move far from the receiver, as if he had put the phone down and was now talking to the air. RCR Last April, when Will first mentioned Alaska, Ginny had cried. She was happy with their life in Boston, happy with their sunny rooms overlooking the Fenway, with their day jobs at the restaurant on Beacon Street. Will seemed to have no idea of what he would do there, or when he would be back. They were walking across the Common, on their way to feed the ducks at the public garden . Ginny wanted Will to stop talking about moose and bear, about big money, about possibilities trips which didn't include her. She wanted him to say exactly why he was leaving, for that summer to mean something to their life together. He seemed aloof to her, embarrassed. long and "How can I know what it means?" he said. "I don't have a crystal ball." As they began to scatter lumps of bread the ducks gathered round, quacking. The nearer birds, jostled by the throng, edged onto their shoe tops. A green-headed drake nipped her fingers . She threw her last crust at him, hard. "Quack, quack," said Will. "We're out of bread." He turned the paper bag upside down and shook out the crumbs. A few hens on the perimeter the willows, while others stood gamely on one leg, looking around indecisively. ambled off to sit beneath 23 Fong "All gone," said Ginny. But he was home now, finally, and she could pick up the loose threads of her life. Last night Will had kicked and mumbled in his sleep. He kept reaching out for her until she found herself pinned against the cold wall of the room. Each time he grunted Ginny said "I'm sorry," in a small, soft voice. But Will never made an answer which she could decipher. He might as well have been wide awake. "I'm too tired to drive," she had told him as he shaved under his chin. "Let's take your car." Will scratched the back of his head, then held out his hand for the coffee cup. Asphalt heaves rocked the car. Coffee dribbled down his chin and soaked into his lap. "Did he look like me?" he asked. "No," said Ginny. They drove on for a time, listening to the hum of the tires. The suburban malls gave way to scrub forest. Ginny watched the trees slip past, mostly grey bark and bare branches. Only the oaks had managed to keep their leaves. His hair was black and his fingers trembled while he held at a fork. That much she remembered clearly. He was not tall like Will. There were black hairs on his shoulders. At the beach he wobbled unsteadily in the surf, back to the waves. RCR "He had two kids," she said. The road became rough. More signs crews appeared, warning of construction ahead. Ginny's stomach contracted into a hard wreath of pain. Will's silence did not calm her. Before he left for Alaska the same silence loomed. She had made promise after promise of lov~, while he had explained about seine nets, crew shares, and the weather in the North Pacific. He did not say that he wanted to meet someone new, and in the end grumbled that she could come too, if she liked. When she had refused, the fault became hers. "I'm sorry," she saiq. "Sue warned me not to tell you." · ' By now the long line of cars heading south had slowed to a crawl. A flashing yellow light funnelled them into one lane near the shoulder. "It's just as well," said Will. He was married, she told him. He was married, he had two kids, both girls. The whole family had dinner every Thursday night at the Black Dog Cafe. On the Thursday before Labor Day he had come back in alone. His name was also Will. When her shift ended he was waiting outside. His eyes were bright almost bulging. "If you'll drive me home," he said, "I'll show you the most beautiful spot on the island." 25 Fong He lay low across the back seat as she picked her way through town. One by one he told her the things that he liked about her. "I like the way your nose wrinkles when you smile," he said. "The way your toes turn out when you walk. Your thin calves below the hemline. I like the way your eyes close when you list the specials of the day." "You shouldn't make fun of me," said Ginny, looking over her shoulder at him . "Keep your eyes on the road," he said solemnly. "You'll blow our cover." Ginny pulled up to a stop sign, laughing. When another car idled alongside, she set her face and looked straight ahead. "That's better," he told her. "People will think you laugh at your own jokes. Turn right. We'll take this road up island. I'll tell you when to stop." Later that night they lay on the hood of the car, watching mackerel clouds scud across a thin slice of moon. Ginny held his head in her lap . "I was nineteen when the first man walked on that moon," he said. "I was six, I think. I don't remember." "Didn't you look for footprints?" he asked. "Where?" "Up there," he said. "On the moon." RCR Men in hard hats crowded the shoulder. A section of the road ahead had been blasted through a steep, short hill and rock walls rose straight on either side to the height of telephone poles. A pair of large black birds pokes curiously at the ragged skeleton of a child's tennis shoe which lay trodden in the roadbed. As they neared the construction site, a flagman waved them to a stop. "Couldn't you call him something else? William, or Bill maybe? I mean, if you have to talk about him." "His name was Will," she said. "You don't know that for sure. What did his wife call him?" "Daddy, I think ." The earth trembled under the tread of heavy equipment. The flagman stepped to the shoulder as a truckload of fill came rumbling through the cut, tires spitting dirt and gravel. The cab windows were so dark with grime that Ginny could not make out the driver. The smaller of the two birds ran shrieking and flapping to the side of the road, but its wings clumsily against the air. An oncoming wheel caught one black wing and rolled it underneath the dead weight of the load. the other moved 27 Fong The flagman motioned to proceed. Once past the site, the pavement was black and blank as a seam of coal. No lines had been painted on it. for them Ginny looked at Will. "A bird got run over," she said. "By that big truck." "I'm sorry," Will said. "I must have missed it." Ginny turned her face to the wind to hold the tears back. She wanted to crush her guilt like a paper cup and toss it over the side. As soon as Will had arrived in Alaska and netted a job, he began to send enthusiastic letters home, about his plans for the money he'd make, about missing her. Now he stood silent at the rail, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. Grey gulls flew up, wheeled raucously, dove again to the water. A school of bluefish worked the rip where two currents collided, confusing the sea. The bigger fish walled the bait up against the tide, the slashed through. Two fisherman, their small boat rocked by the ferry's passage, brought one to gaff. The sharp steel bit easily through the back of the fish and emerged dripping from the other side. Some passengers cheered and clapped. Ginny set her feet wide on the deck. She closed her eyes, felt the surge of the engines far down in the ship. "That was a nice fish," Will said, turning RCR from the rail. they red?" she asked. "Let's go below." Ginny put her hands to her cheeks. "Are "It's cold," Will said, taking her arm. The stale breath of the cabin turned her stomach. Will brought two cans of beer at the counter while Ginny found a seat in a corner booth. The summer flooded her thoughts. Over coffee the next morning, Sue had laughed at the whole affair. She called him the mysterious and pressed for an introduction. man-in-the-moon Will finished his beer and started on hers. "He won't be there, will he?" "I don't think so," she said. "They were summer people ." After leaving the ferry they drove by the cafe. Ginny poked her head into the kitchen, said hello to the cook, and joined Will at a table by the window. She sat with her back to the harbor, wondering what she would do if he walked in right then, as they were having lunch. She took all the sugar packets out of the rack and began to build a little house. She the smoothed their watercolor images of seascapes, and stood them on edge, like playing cards. envelopes, with During the rest of the Labor Day weekend, she had been afraid to answer the phone. On 29 Fong Tuesday, she drove by his house, unsure of what she hoped to see. On Thursday she called in sick. The following Sunday, Sue fixed a pitcher of rum and orange juice to take to the beach. "Last chance for the sun," she said. "I want to get drunk and read the comics." The waves washed a slow, steady beat into the sand. They lay with their backs to the water, sipping at straws. The two daughters sported matching striped bikinis. They ran up to show Ginny their shovels and pails. He wore mirrored sunglasses. Black hairs curled thickly around his navel. He sank to one knee, as if he were planning to stay and talk, while his wife continued along the beach. "This must be your roommate," he said, to Sue, who squinted over her nodding shoulder at him. Their sauntered away. Ginny rolled away from her newspaper, then sat up, propped on one arm. She looked hard at the sharp points of his brows, the tiny gaps between his the charm seemed to have left his smile. teeth. All "I won't disturb you," he said, still smiling. "We'll see you next Thursday. As usual." The girls ran shrieking to the waterline. then father made a mock salute, "Who was that jerk?" asked Sue, taking a RCR long pull at her drink. "That's the guy," said Ginny. "That's him." latched On Monday Ginny and Sue cleaned out the refrigerator, the shutters, and boarded the ferry for the mainland. When they reached the far shore, Ginny drove up the ramp on to the dock. She sat blinking awhile in the sun, feeling as though she had just been disgorged from the belly of a whale. to add another When Ginny attempted brick to the foundation, her sugar house collapsed. The packets fell with the sound of sifting sand. She drew the heap close to her chest and began to file them by color. Every now and the screen door slammed behind a new customer, mostly locals who nodded to Ginny and then quietly took a seat. Will rested his elbows on the table. about "You know I thought this all then summer," he said. "You didn't trust me?" "I trusted you," he said seriously. "I was thinking about coming here, just the two of us." Two dark-haired girls stomped their feet by the door. An older man followed them in, but his hair was too grey, his shoes too well polished. "I have to use the bathroom," said Ginny. 31 Fong She pushed the lid down and sat on it until her stomach pains subsided. Then she combed her hair, which was knotted and tangled trip . When she returned to the table, Will was stirring a bowl of chowder. the ferry from "I ordered the same for you," he said. Ginny inspected her plate. "After we eat," she said,"let's drop our stuff off at the house and go for a drive . I want to show you around the island." Will leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. She slid into the chair next to him, and ate with her back to the door . The road veered right and began to climb a low, wooded hill. Gravel crackled under the tires. From time to time Will turned to look at her face. She caught each glance like a ball thrown in her direction. He still wasn't talking, but she could live with that. She settled in behind the wheel and concentrated the ruts. They on steering gently through rounded the western slope of the hill. the last bend and surveyed "This is it," said Ginny. "You have to walk up to the top." "Where do we park?" "I usually just pull over," she said. "We'll make a U-tum after." RCR Cold gusts rattled the trees, carried the report of car doors slamming out to sea. The ridge was hidden from the road by the bulk of the hill and a stand of oaks. A light swell rolled under the setting sun as she led Will up the trail. In the falling light she could imagine there before . The climb was steep but short. When they reached the top, Ginny sat with her legs outstretched in the dry grass, winded . that she had never been Will walked to the edge of the clearing. He picked a crumpled beer can out of the grass and chucked it over the brink. Ginny lay on her back, sighting the sun through the tips of her shoes . She sniffed the faint salt scent of the Atlantic mingled with the almost dormant smell of autumn. When Will sat hunched over his knees beside her, she turned up her face to be kissed . The summer seemed far away. Ginny pulled him down, pillowed her head on his chest. She wished again that she had remembered a blanket. "Where will we go?" she asked. "Depends," said Will. "We have enough for Mexico. The Bahamas maybe." "Would we work down there?" "We might . have to." Will's fingers were warm on her neck. "If I went back to Alaska next year, we could make it. South in the winter, north in the summer." 33 Fong The sun shivered at the horizon, dipped into a thin line of haze and lit the clouds with color. When the bird landed on his foot, Will flinched. Ginny caught her breath with a sound which was not quite a sob. The bird's yellow eyes shone close. She ·heard the rustle of the jet black wings as they folded. "A crow," said Will, as the bird, with short jabs of its beak, began to untie his shoelace. "A crow," she echoed. The bird continued to peck and pull at the shoe. Dark, glossy hackles feathered its neck. "I don't believe this," said Will. The bird had begun sidestepping . along his leg. The head bobbed up and down with a curious undulating motion. It dipped and wove like a snake or a prizefighter. Ginny watched Will's hand twitch in the grass, readying to make a grab. "Don't," she said. "It's tame. It must belong to somebody." The bird opened and closed its beak, then spread its wings without making any move to fly. It seemed to choke, and regurgitated a small stone, which bounced off Will's thigh and into the grass. Ginny offered her index finger to the bird as a perch. "Here bird," she coaxed. The crow turned tail and hopped cautiously out of arm's reach. It lingered once more at Will's feet, feathers glistening black against sunset, before venturing sideways leap onto her calf. a suspicious, "Here bird," she called again, feeling the RCR the prick of its toes through her jeans. "Here bird." The crow cocked its head, training a bright eye on her beckoning hand. Ginny bent close. The bird bit her finger, just above the nail. "Hey!" she said, examining her hand. "That hurt ." She shook her fist at the crow. Will waved his arms above his head. "That's enough," he said. The bird unfurled its wings and set off .. down the hill, shining like a dark seam in the curtained sky. Ginny hugged her knees to her chest and rocked silently back and forth. Will struggled to his feet, put his hands in his pockets. She picked up a twig and poked it into the grass. The small stone had disappeared. Dusk descended. An evening chill slithered along the ground, rattling the dry leaves. The sun had behind the sea. long since dropped "I'm cold," Ginny said aloud. "Let's go." She hooked one hand in Will's back pocket and hoisted herself to her feet. When she looked down again, only the rough outline of her rump remained printed in the grass. She dusted the seat of her pants. 35 Fong They held hands all the way to the car. At the narrower spots on the trail, Ginny edged ahead, but as the path widened she would fall back again in step. She was the first to spot the bird. "On the hood," she said. - The crow turned to look at her. "It's giving us the eye," said Will. The trunks of the trees grew dim, swathed in shadow. Ginny strode up to the driver's side of the car. "I'll drive," she said. "Goodbye bird. We're going now." them. From her seat behind She climbed in. Will walked around the front of the car, while the bird inched along the hood, maintaining a fixed distance between the wheel, Ginny could track the bird easily, but the line of the windshield cut Will off at the shoulder the passenger side, the latch moved but the door did not open. blades. When he gained The crow cocked its head, threatened to fly. In the dull light, its wing quills reflected the dead grey sheen of gun metal. Ginny observed the tapered beak of the bird. When close to Will, she it pointed dangerously leaned across the passenger door open. the seat and pushed Fon Will yelped with surprise and pain. The sharp edge had caught him on the hip . He rubbed the spot. "The bird," said Ginny . "It looked like it was going to attack." Will sat down, swung his legs under the dash . The bird hopped onto the roof . Will pulled at the door. It thudded dully against the hem of his coat. "You said it was tame," he said, clearing his coat from the door. "It's a tame crow." "Sorry," said Ginny. They heard the rasp of the crows feet on the roof. Will rolled down his window . "Go home bird," he said, craning his neck out to get a better look. "What's it doing?" Ginny asked. She put the key in the ignition. Will gripped the edge of the roof, pulled himself higher. "It's gone," he said. "Must've flown off." As he slipped back down into the seat, his the rain gutter. forehead thunked against "Let's go," he said . Ginny started the engine, turned wheel sharply, and backed into a small clump of saplings. When the bumper ground against the hillside, she cranked hard to the left, then eased onto the road. She flipped on the 37 Fong the headlamps, and the broad beams cast long shadows into the woods. She drove cautiously, listening for a faint scrape from the roof. Not far from the main highway, the car began to shake as it the read end had bottomed out. Ginny brought them clanking to a halt. She rested her chin on the wheel and sat tight. She heard the rustle of oak leaves, the muffled crash of the sea, a creak from the radiator, dissipating heat. Will sighed. He fished under the seat and brought up a flashlight. "I don't want to get out," said Ginny. Will thumbed the switch back and forth. The beam shone white on the dashboard. "You don't have to," he said. "Unless it's a flat." She turned to watch his shadow move along the windows. Something had gone wrong again and the blame nearly stunned her. She saw the light flash up into the trees, down in a bright oval on the dirt, and then disappear behind the rear wheels. She felt two thuds as Will kicked the tires. A twig snapped under his feet. The light swung with the motion of his arm. He opened the door and peered inside. "Just a stick," he said. "Nothing serious." Ginny switched off the headlights. The moon had not yet risen. In the spaces RCR between stars, the sky clung to blue. She followed Will to the back of the car. A forked branch, about the thickness of three fingers at the base, was wedged between the bumper and the right fender. The main stem had ploughed a long furrow in the roadbed. "You must have backed over it when we turned around," said Will. He gave loosening the fork a few good yanks without the branch. Then he jumped onto the bumper and rode up and down several times- with all his weight-but the wood was still green and did not break. Finally, by laying on his back in the road, and kicking at the base, he was able to dislodge it. the branch. She grasped it by the tines with both hands, like a divining rod. Will turned the flashlight on the damaged fender and ran his finger over the dent. Ginny knelt to retrieve "We were lucky," he said. "It could've been worse. 39 (untitled) Michael Green half kilo short the dealer laughs nervously CONTRIBUTORS Geoffrey Bankowski (one poem) will graduate from MSU this summer with a B.A. in Political Theory. East Lansing has been his home since 1987. Jennifer Blackledge published in Mushroom Opera, is a junior in the English Literature program at MSU. (one poem), previously Peter W. Fong (short story) Montana. He has a story forthcoming in Amelia. is from Missoula Gail Gibson (one poem) is a junior at MSU, studying Journalism and English Literature. She has had a short story published in SASSY. a national young women's magazine . Taylor Graham (one poem) has been published in many academic and non-academic magazines, including The Beloit Journal, Bitterroot. and Sequoia. David Green (two poems) an East Lansing native, is a senior in James Madison College at MSU. Michael Green (one poem) sends us his work from Dayton, Ohio. Jeff Hill (two poems) lives in a house in Lansing, Michigan just south of 3 big smokestacks . He is a graduate student in the creative writing program at MSU, currently studying poetry with Diane Wakoski. RCR Elizabeth Kirschner (one poem) received a Finalist Award from the Massachusetts Artists Foundation, and was named runner-up for the 1990 Grolier Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared in ~ Geon~ia Reyiew, Illltt BiYm fOdIX Journal, and others. Lyn Lifshin (two poems), a very prolific New York poet, has been a pioneer in her own writing about "women subjects" in poetry. Christian Olson (one poem) is a senior in the English Literature program at MSU and studies poetry with Diane Wakoski. Kenneth Pobo (one poem) has been published by Nimrod. Mudfish, Grain and others. He has a forthcoming chapbook from the Singular Speech Press entitled fu. Jack Salaga (one poem) is a poet from Cleveland, Ohio, has been published by a variety of literary magazines, including Hobo Tun,le, Konslomerati. and most recently by the Wormwood Review. Christine M. Stephens (one poem) is an MFA candidate at Western Michigan University. Paul Weinman (one poem) sends us bits and pieces from Albany, New York, where he receives threatening letters from the White Aryan Resistance.