I dry my hands on the sink towel. It took me twenty-one minutes to wash two bowls, two spoons, one cup, a mug and the large Tupperware with greasy remnants of fish and potato stew. My fingers are pruned almost to the point of pain. It probably had only taken me three minutes to wash the dishes and I probably stood there with my hands catching the steamy, running water for the next eighteen. That is probably what happened. That’s what happened.
     I look out of the window above the sink and see her standing on the patio in the backyard. Grass is starting to grow between the cement tiles. Grass doesn’t even grow in her yard. Nothing grows where it should, when it should. She is standing on her patio when she should be inside washing the dishes instead. I cooked, she should clean, or something like that. Isn’t that a deal we made once? It’s an unspoken rule at the very least. Equality. Balance in the relationship. Total egalitarianism in this progressive and modern state of humankind. She thinks she doesn’t have to wash dishes because she’s prettier than I am? Just kidding though, I didn’t cook tonight. I heated up week-old stew in the microwave. She made the stew.
     She is staring into the woods behind the house. Small, panicked birds hop on the branches of every tree and equally tense squirrels parkour over the uprooted bottoms (nothing grows where it should, when it should) as they run from unknown, invisible monsters. Why can’t squirrels walk? They only ever jerk from Point A to Point B in the most crooked, paroxysmal lines. Is it that their hearts will stop beating if they start walking? Do they have to continually run to keep up their heart rates or they’ll die, like humming birds, or the guy from Crank? I might have made up that bit about hummingbirds. Also I just remembered I once saw a squirrel walk towards an old lady holding a peanut.
     Thing I like: Con Air
     Thing she hates: Nic Cage movies
     “Are you going to come inside soon?”
     “When I get five mosquito bites.”
     “How many do you have now?”
     “Two.”
     “When are you going to come in?”
     “When I get three more mosquito bites.”
     She stares at the trees during our short conversation and I look at her legs. Her calves are more defined than mine are. I am flat footed. She gets more height with each step than I do. We both have awful upper body strength.
     Things we hate together: wintertime, people who go to the gym
     She slaps her thigh half-heartedly, still watching the birds and squirrels, and I can tell that she has gotten bite number three. A few minutes pass and she rubs her stomach. I can’t tell if this is bite number four or if she has a stomachache from the stew. I would care more if I were the one who made the stew, but I wasn’t, so there was nothing she could blame me for if she felt sick. She likes to blame me for things, sometimes. I will rub her stomach later if she asks me to. I assume she has gotten another mosquito bite and stop thinking about her belly. I realize I am still drying my hands and now they are pruned and also raw from the cheap hand towel. I stop and walk over to the sliding door that leads outside to the patio, but I don’t walk though it. I watch her through the glass.
     She stands about fifteen feet away from me. Point A to Point B. I would have to open the door (or break it and walk on top of the shards of glass), step over a rusted lawn chair, climb on top of a waterlogged picnic table, and leapfrog the miniature charcoal grill to reach her in the shortest distance possible. I would reach her and hug her from behind and put my chin on her shoulder. Our hair would drape together in front of her chest, brown and red strands like the color of leaves on the trees we would stare at together. The leaves would fall every time a bird hopped from one branch to another. I would get my first mosquito bite.
     Instead I tap on the glass pane and say I am leaving and she nods.
     Things we both feel indifferent about: breast implants, Radiohead, sleeping alone
     Halfway down the block I realize I left my sweater inside her house. I turn around and begin to walk back. A squirrel runs 90% of the way across the street in front of me and then changes its mind. It scurries back to its starting point. Squirrels, man.
     She’s sitting on the floor in her living room when I walk back inside.
     “Get all your bug bites out of the way for the night?”
     “Yeah, I ended up waiting for seven.”
     “That’s unlucky.”
     “I know.”
     I sit down next to her and put my left ankle over her right. We both have small ankles.
     “You forgot your sweater.”
     Thing she loves: telling me what I’ve forgotten
     “I know. That’s why I walked back.”
     “You could have gotten it tomorrow. It’s not cold out.”
     “I know, but I didn’t want to get any bites on my walk home.”
     With my fingers I touch the spot where our legs are crossed. Her leg is cool and mine is hot. Our skin is smooth, a little damp and different shades of brownish pink. Our hair falls together like it did when I imagined myself walking out onto the patio from Point A to Point B. Brown and red, brown and pink. Chocolate covered strawberries, or the insides of rabbit ears. Brown rabbits. Brown leaves. Our legs are touching but our hands aren’t. No one speaks for five minutes. I don’t think she even remembers that I left, that I came back. Nothing grows where it should, when it should.
     “So, I’m gonna head out, okay?”
     She nods.
     “I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re the best.”
     “Oh. Yeah.”
     “I’ll bring over lunch.”
     She nods. “Okay. Yeah. That stew you made isn’t settling well in me.”
     “I didn’t make the stew.”
     “The fish stew? You made it. You brought it over. Here, take your Tupperware home.”
     She gets up and hands me the still greasy Tupperware as I stare at her trying to figure out which one of us forgot the details of who made lunch, but I know it’s her. Her eyes watch mine as they watch her. We look at each other. Her eyes are empty. Nothing grows. She’s prettier than I am, and knows it. I wonder if I should rub her stomach. I walk home instead and make another pot of stew for two: carrots, celery, kidney beans, barley. Rabbit food, brown bunny rabbits with soft, pink ears and wet pink noses.

–––––––
Sarah Jean Alexander has a degree in Journalism from Towson University and spends her time writing from her apartment in Baltimore. Her pieces are scattered throughout the internet. You can find more from her at sjwritten.wordpress.com.

Scene XV

In which Hamlet’s piteous sigh
             is heard by Ophelia

We make love every time
she says I have to see a man about a horse
behind a carriage
nothing easy
is forever a good thing
what makes Sammy run
to the book depository
life is a bowl of cherries
on the side of the road
a bed of roses
everybody lays on the ground
that’s life and only life
is David Lynch singing through a vocoder
slow down
all good things to those who wait
a shot in the dark
invitation to love
a moment of clarity
for old times’ sake
we embrace the truth
performing a disappearing act
according to the laws of gravity
holding each other meant everything
we never spoke when spoken to

_____________________________________

Scene XVI

In which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
            bend to Hamlet’s understanding

it’s better to have loved
to never love at all
the world behind a curtain
is better left unsaid
if love makes the world go around
saying things about my mother
behind my back
the stage resembles the usual tragedies
you called to say it’s over
the hill with a ruined church
everyone thinking is haunted
Halleluiahs on headstones
for years no one picks up
the receiver refused to accept the charges
the front door was always open
the lights were always blue
T.V. selling weight loss
through the bedroom door
the lights were always blue
tying one on
out on a flesh toned limb
every cloud has a silver lining
if it’s not one thing it’s another
get behind me Satan
say hi to my mother

_____________________________________

Scene XVII

In which Polonius reveals Hamlet’s
            distemper to king and queen

step back for a second
look before you leap
out of the frying pan
the critics say you were forced
to find your feet
without a leg to stand one
metaphorically speaking
you fell head over heels
anatomically speaking
no one could save you from yourself
acting without a heart
in the apple of your eye
an arrow isn’t needed to blind
so far as we can see
spiritually speaking
every wedding needs a shotgun
to help us learn by failure
speak now or forever hold your peace
blind folded or execution style
the easy way is just as hard
to reach for the sky
you never had a chance

_____________________________________

Scene XVIII

In which Hamlet tells Polonius
            conception is a blessing

I think I can make the world a better place
I hide the revolver
in the shape of my hand
between a knocked over lamp and white sheet
you tied up beautifully
disguised as a compliment
we called room service
our lady of the sweet hereafter
let it be known we will eat with our mouths closed
until further notice
the intended program will be interrupted
due to icy conditions
due to the fact I think I can
never search through your hair with my fingers
loaded and half in the bag
you said it looks like a bird, a plane
exploding in flight, you said
take a picture
it will last longer

_____________________________________

Scene XIX

In which Hamlet greets Rosencrantz
            and Guildenstern at the prison gates

you’ll have to forgive my body
coming on too strong
when push comes to shove
around the wishing well
a picture is worth a thousand words
that only makes it worse
to be seen believing
I answer to no one
I enter a doctor’s office
obsessed with nautical art
I know is only a theory
different knots serve only one purpose
to heal the sick
with a slight air of entitlement
sometimes it comes in the form of a friend
more than a friend
saying it isn’t you it’s me
slipping a life line around your neck
it’s safe they say
it only makes it worse
to learn my name
taken once in the morning and once in the evening
side effects include dancing
when no one is looking
for all the right reasons
singing in the shower
when no one is listening
for the landing of a coin
in a well

_____________________________________

Scene XX

In which Hamlet recounts the players
            modest cunning

everything is conditional
if I am on top of her
falling into a dark hole
I give until it hurts
her pussy is the center of the universe
if it looks too good to be true
she’s been practicing her whole life to get it right
if it’s the first or last thing she’ll ever do
my secret will be safe
when I was twelve my brother called me a pussy
surrounded by a scary group of givers and takers
I was the center of the universe
if it rained in Indiana
everybody got wet
if I took a shot
I gave until it hurt
if things were not the way they were
I wouldn’t be here
dying in some private way
if it really mattered how I began
I would have let them teach me a lesson
if the center of the universe show itself to you
a mirror is broken every time

_____________________________________

Donavon’s poems have appeared in many online and print journals, most recently in: Barnstorm, Juked, The Fiddleback, Prick of the Spindle, Oak Bend Review, Pirene’s Fountain, The Montucky Review, Spork, 3:AM, Anti-, and MiPOesias. He received his MFA from Goddard College and currently teaches writing at the Community College of Vermont.

I wasn’t used to riding a bicycle with a bow across my back. I felt a little silly about it actually, and hoped no one I knew would see me. That’s why, or why I thought, I started out so early in the morning, looking to be able to loop the city and be back home before ten or so. But the truth is, I didn’t know what exactly I was doing out there. I knew I was hunting owls, and I knew that every time I looked over my shoulder I’d spot a couple—a man and a woman—riding bicycles behind me, but I didn’t feel like I knew much else. The man and woman were keeping their distance, a distance that made me think they were following me, that they were why I was out there in the first place, and why I had the bow across my back.
     Sometimes you wonder why you find yourself where you do. Sometimes that wondering can change things for you. And yet sometimes you just wonder and keep on.
     Earlier on my ride I’d already caught a glimpse of a few owls. They were out of shooting range though, and each time I got within a hundred yards, they started hopping away. Hopping sort of like kangaroos, a few quick, bolting hops, and then volplaning—if that’s the word—for a few seconds, adding to the distance between us. The owls kept far enough away that it would have been a waste to shoot at them. I’m not a very good shot anyway. In fact, I’ve only shot an arrow a few times in my life, and, if I remember correctly, besides painfully chafing my forearm with the snap of the bowstring, my arrows didn’t come close to their target.
     I was getting tired. More than anything, the bow across my back was uncomfortable. I cruised to a stop, stood with the bicycle between my legs and tried to rearrange myself. The constricting quiver and the arrows poking everywhere made it awkward, plus my shirt was bunching up. I pulled it down to cover the little flash of my belly and then, straightened up a bit, turned to look behind me. The couple had stopped on their bicycles as well. They were looking at me. A tall, skinny man with close cropped blonde hair, a jaw so bony I could see it from a hundred yards away, and a woman of indistinct age with dark brown hair. I threw up my hands in frustration. They didn’t respond.
     I stepped on the raised pedal and started riding again.
     I was approaching the underpass of a bridge when I saw the flock of owls. There must have been thirty of them. What I knew of owls, which was very little, told me something was wrong. Owls, as I knew them, weren’t the flocking type. And yet nor were owls the hopping type and I had already seen a number of them hopping around that morning. So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised to see a flock of owls, but I was. All of those fat and furry little owl legs running, running and hopping, some of them even volplaning a bit, and then hopping and running again, made me stand up on the pedals and start pumping faster. I was gaining on them. Maybe, I thought, I would finally be able to take a shot. I pedaled hard, once, once more, then squeezed the break handles and started untangling the bow off my back. An arrow caught and fell out of the quiver. The owls, the whole time, were hysterical, yelping and hopping like little children. Finally I had the bow in my hands.
     That was when I saw him. It was a man. From his body-type I’d guess he was in his fifties, but I’m not sure. I never saw his face. He was wearing a faded, pink, button down shirt, khaki pants and good and new-looking brown boots. Though I couldn’t see his face, from the way he was running I could tell he was frightened, and the fear he felt was very pressing. I loaded my arrow. Is that what you say? Loaded? I pulled back the string. There were so many owls to choose from. More than thirty, I’d say. More like fifty or sixty. Maybe even more than that. I probably could have just shot into the air and I would have got one. Is that what you say? Got one? Isn’t there an official term for it? Bagged one, is that it? Anyway, once I had the whole hysterical chirruping flock in my sights, I couldn’t help it, that crazed man was running right alongside the owls, I pointed my arrow towards him and let go.
     Like I said, I’m not a very good shot. I guess I didn’t even pull the string back straight. It caught my forearm a little bit. I could actually see the arrow wavering in the air. It wasn’t a forceful shot, and yet it hit the man in his upper back, on the right. If he were facing me I would have hit him right in the heart. But he was running, almost flailing, away from me, so the arrow hit opposite his heart, in the back. And it stuck.
     The man took about three more knock-kneed steps, and then, as he started to fall, as if trying to fly, he waved his arms about. It was as if he too could have volplaned a little bit. But instead of gliding, he fell, stiffly, hitting the ground with his face.
     For a moment I felt a shocking silence. And then it went away. The owls had all reached what they must have considered was a safe distance between us. A few of them turned back to look at me, or at least look in my direction. The man on the ground was twitching. Or maybe he was trying to get up. How was I to know what his intentions were?
     Anyway, he lay there, face down, the arrow sticking out of his back. I was surprised I had hit him. I was also surprised the arrow had actually stuck.
     Before I’d shot the arrow, I forgot to mention this, I had gotten completely off my bike, or whoever’s bike it was, and, in my excitement, just let it fall. Now I went back and picked it up, and threw my leg over its seat. My hands were sweating, I was still holding the bow, the quiver strap trying to strangle me. My belly flashed.
     Then, of a sudden, I started realizing what a problem I had on my hands. There was a dead or dying man laying not too far away from me, a whole bunch of owls, and—and then I looked behind me for the first time—maybe even some distant witnesses. But the couple that had been following me all morning, the twosome urging or even forcing me along in my hunt, were not to be seen. So maybe I did have time. And yet I felt something strange. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was at first, but then, standing there a few more seconds in the hot open sun, I realized what it was. Remorse. Yes. I should have poisoned the arrow first. So obvious after the fact. Without doubt. And then my thinking started to clear.
     There were at least two obvious mistakes I had made (one of which I was still making). I shouldn’t have stayed there staring at the man, or at the owls starting to crowd around him. I was attracting too much attention. I should have jumped right back on my bike, or whoever’s bike it was, and started pedaling. Soon, I was sure, the couple would be in view and when they reached me they would surely look in the direction I was looking, and, most definitely, spot the man on the ground. Then I would have to start explaining. I was acting like an idiot, a stupid criminal idiot, but instead of making the mistake of returning to the scene of the crime I hadn’t even left it yet. The second obvious mistake, as I’ve already said, was that I hadn’t poisoned the arrow. What if the man, however unlikely, were to live? He might be able to identify me. I didn’t get much further into these thoughts when I turned around and saw, though still a ways away, the approaching couple.
     I stared at them, trying to stare them away. They kept coming though, leisurely, despite me, their front wheels turning this way and that, riding almost as slowly as you can ride, just fast enough, as I understand it, for their forward momentum to keep from becoming sideways momentum and tipping them off their bikes. I raised my arm in the same frustrated motion I had raised it earlier. I think the woman, though it was hard to see, smiled.
     They didn’t even pretend not to know. That’s what bothered me most. They didn’t ask anything like, What happened here? Or, What’s that lying on the ground over there? The woman spoke first. She said, You committed a grave act.
     One of the gravest, the man said, sticking his tongue out a little bit. The motion added a lightness to what he said. I don’t know if he was making fun of me, or was being ironic, or what.
     What do you think about what you’ve done? the woman asked.
     I still had the quiver on my back, the bow in my hand, the bike between my legs. The owls, I noticed, were starting to hop, just a little bit, hopping in place like little excited children.
     You, I wanted to say. You two are accusing me? After following me at a distance all morning? After riding so slowly behind me? But I didn’t say that. I could have really given it to them, I know, but I decided, for the time being at least, to take it easy. Keep my cards close to my chest.
     I was hunting owls, I said.
     Does that look like an owl? the woman said, but neither she nor the man motioned to anything like that.
     I turned and looked. The owls, still bumping up and down, were creeping a little closer towards us, back to the bike path where I’d startled them off.
     I raised my hand in frustration. I wonder how it all would have turned out if I had shot an owl instead of a man. It might have been the same, or worse, with the man joining in to interrogate me. Maybe it would have been better. You never know.
     Listen, I said. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing here.
     It seemed like it could have been the beginning of a good explanation.
     The owls were getting more comfortable with our presence. Hopping, now timidly, now boldly, closer and closer. They were within easy shooting distance, again.
     You were hunting owls? the man said, and I couldn’t tell if his voice expressed horror or incredulity. Or reproach. Or maybe irony again.
     I, I started to say, then finished with, Why were you following me?
     Following you? the woman said.
     Are you still hunting owls? the man said, nodding toward the flock of them. Because if you are—
     Listen, I said, fed up with it all. There is a man lying on the ground. He has an arrow in his back. We really should do something. Then I lifted and set my foot back on the pedal.
     The couple was unperturbed. They looked like they were trying to look baffled—widening their eyes, making little O’s out of their lips—as if they didn’t know what I was talking about.
     Then the man straightened up and said, You were hunting owls, but you shot the man instead.
     The sentence was somewhere between a statement and a question. I didn’t know how to respond. I shrugged my shoulders, put my arm through the bow and arranged it again across my back.
     You meant to shoot the man? the woman asked.
     I sighed. I don’t know, I said.
     It wasn’t premeditated, I know that. But, and I admit (though I didn’t admit anything then) it wasn’t unmeditated either.
     Well, the woman said. What’s next for you?
     I have to get this bike back, I said.
     Whose bike is it?
     Hmm, I thought for a moment. Then, It’s mine, I heard myself say. And then I stepped my weight onto the pedal, starting to ride again. The couple didn’t say anything, or at least I didn’t hear them say anything.
     This time the owls didn’t startle off the path. They just watched me ride, opening a narrow path for me to ride my bike through. And as I rode between them, I saw, as they turned their mobile little heads, that they watched me not in admiration, not in animal fear, not in confusion, doubt or even dismissal, but, and I could see it clearly in their big compass-like eyes, in disdain.
     
     
–––––––
John Washington writes in Mexico City these days.

FOXGLOVE

if you’d like your arms to
vanish hold them still
very still against your body
they will vanish just like glass
your thoughts they will thank you
for letting more light in
and your guests will bow remarking
amongst themselves
how much it feels like
a weight’s been lifted and it has
they are right but be careful
this trick applies also
to the heart if you stay still
long enough your heart
will become windows
two windows on the same floor
of separate apartments in separate cities
in which two strangers
turn off the lights to watch the storm
throwing a sheet over
their separate cities their separate
hearts with
pretty much the same view
_______________________________________

FOXGLOVE

I am not a nature poet
foxglove no really I am not
trees and clouds they
surround me you should
see it where I live
there are mice in the walls
here my trust in windows
is growing thin
foxglove I am not
a nature poet I can’t help it
leaves are falling on my head
if I lived in the city perhaps
I’d write about city things
metrocards and chinese
newspaper mixed up in my
bed and the streets would seem
slick with the reminder
we are vulnerable to the
whims of concrete how soon
it might flood or rise
against us dear god like sequoias
look at those buildings come
_______________________________________

FOXGLOVE

I lied I am
not immortal
there is no
such thing as
zombies at least
not like that
I am glad
summer is over
the leaves are stirring
in their
paper coffins
we can step
I am sorry
I will die
in all honesty I’d
rather be flying
in a boat across the
ocean without a wave
of hubris or
blade of grass
to stop us
to put us in our place
_______________________________________

FOXGLOVE

is the owl who
flew beside us from
the city to leafless no
where there are things
along this world
who look like forests
someone sharpened
into pencils
what kind of blue
would you call that blue
inside our bodies
the sky
flying through us
owls and interstates
we too have veins
and scenic vistas
_______________________________________

FOXGLOVE

you give the wind goosebumps
when you say those things gray
hood slipped over tuesday
the trees are different let’s
have a party and the fortress
don’t invite the fortress
it will rain and the gray will soak
our pants the way the blank soaks
through the window on this first
cold night of the century
this new one we’re inventing
and what a pity we can’t keep
the colors what a pity
such a stupid thing to say
FOXGLOVE
it’s funny you say
we have teeth and
back to sleep again
I steal this for a poem
because it’s true
today is the first day
of flannel-chested
october and they are filling
the streets selling
apples and having babies
grinding apples into juice
and we can marvel at
the gummy babies we can
eat three donuts each
I think I’ll kiss you
on the mouth now
wake you up to say aren’t you
glad we have teeth
let’s eat some apples
even if our gums bleed
_______________________________________

FOXGLOVE

at all costs
pronouns must be
avoided
they leave
paper-trails to the
blood-source poachers
want your skin will
kill you lined up at the
mall to get it
let’s not speak
of you just go
like the spirit bear goes
succinctly into the
forest be
like the black bear go
put on your white
bear’s suit
_______________________________________
Marc Paltrineri‘s work has been published or is forthcoming in places such as Washington Square, The Laurel Review, H_NGM_N, Sixth Finch, Jellyfish, Redivider, amongst others. He is an editor and founder of the hand-bound poetry journal Sun’s Skeleton and a poetry editor for the online journal Barnstorm. He teaches composition and poetry at the University of New Hampshire where he is pursuing an MFA. He lives nearby.

Stroop Effect

I wouldn’t know anything about it
Except what I’ve seen in movies,
On the internet. Everyone is on
The internet somewhere, but who’s
Watching? I am, in the witching
Hours, working hard to appear hap
Hazard. Here I demonstrate the re
Action time involved in telepathy,
A pressure wave planting an image
In your mind, the way I learned
By watching movies, the way we
Learn everything these days. Tell
Me nice shirt & watch me back into
The compliment the way one sits
On the john. We tip toe round all
This shit with feather-light steps
Saving the best magic tricks for our
Selves, watching ourselves in reverse.
______________________________________________________________________

[Be sure to eat your fruits & vegetables.]

Be sure to eat your fruits & vegetables.
You need all the carbohydrates
You can get. You have miles to go.
Tomorrow you will be too tired
To recognize your own frozen hands.

All of your instruments are failing.
Climb back down from cruising
Altitude, New American. Brake.
Find a vessel ripe to circumnavigate
The globe, find your reflection
In ancient ice. If you cannot find
The ice, how will you find your face?
When you see yourself again
Remember to savor the scraps,
The eight hours sleep, the clean shirt.
______________________________________________________________________

I Hope the Exit is Joyful

Sing away the ghosts. The ones you keep
Inside close your throat before a name
Escapes. Sing until the last, sing with half
A breath, until the people left over can’t
Help singing along with your choked voice.

The two and the four thump away on deaf
Ears. This fight a fight that can’t be won
With force. We have gone as far as imagin-
Ation allows. Some of us shelter too much,
Hide & obsess over germs, stranger danger.
Others step too close to the canyon’s edge,
Forgetting to account for wind velocity &
Concede mercy to nature. The exit clearly
Marked, New American—our deaf ears no
Excuse. All doors empty into a single room.
______________________________________________________________________

To Want to Start Backward

there is something oceanic inside you vast
awe manifest a weather vane flicker behind
your eyes wings beating over an infinity of
water curving outwards the return of sound
waves mapping what your eyes cannot see
yet impatience does not mind the flight has
nothing to do but wait you arrive later than
you think you berate the nothing like a star-
ving dog & slap & slap an echo of each slap
pulses through air mapping the oceans inside
______________________________________________________________________

Ryan Collins is the author of a chapbook, Complicated Weather (Rock Town Press) & an e-chapbook, Handshake Trouble (Gold Wake Press). Some of his recent work has appeared in Spittoon, Leveler, Knock, H_NGM_N, Jellyfish, LOCUSPOINT & Handsome. He lives in the Illinois Quad Cities.