by Lucy Hayes

What I Almost Knew a Year Ago

Well, the sun has fallen on New York again.
Weather app alerts me of a seductive
68 degrees. Smogging the street, there she is:
sunlight shit thick in the unexpected hot air.
Restaurateurs dawn their awnings,
unstack their patio furniture like June
never left us. Fried meats plead my
nostrils, and it must be summer. Against
all odds, it's March again. It's March
for the first time. Oh, Lucy, you’ve been divorced
for almost a year now. You kept dishes,
the rug you can’t stand being your rug alone, the dog,
she will become, impossibly, your dog. Just yours. You
think of them every day, but it's not like you'd think,
they are a mere fact of your past, like your yellow bike.
your yellow childhood bedroom, and Amy, who you
think of every day, whose laugh made middle school possible,
and who you hardly spoke to for years, who died her first year
in college, who had yellow hair that curled the way you always
wanted yours, who would've loved New York. Who might
have visited you like many might have visited you if only
things were different. Who is near alive in memory. You lost
your spouse, your bike, your home, your friend. Grief
relates itself to you differently with each separate love
and from a distance all of your poems are pregnant,
laying on their side, waiting. Loss, too, is a fat bosom.
Now, when you say "I love New York," you mean
love with an uppercase "O." A love with no grip,
a love interrupted by wonder, a love that falls
into itself (again and again) as its rings stretch wide.

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Lucy Hayes is a poet and essayist living in Brooklyn, New York. She is a graduate of the Randolph College MFA program and her work can be found in Rock & Sling, The Rumpus, and elsewhere.

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by Alan Chazaro

California Roll

I listen to the slowed-down version of myself. On repeat, anything

sounds good. Birds flock nearby, towards the shore. We are falling

short of greatness, whatever that means in this context. I cut my hair

during quarantine and people ask me if I play soccer. My family

still gathers in small settings—a backyard, Coronas, the 49ers

game playing the background, masks off. You can’t slow down this drip. I ride

a wave hoping not to drown. Weeks ago, my cousin invited me to L.A. I stayed in

his apartment. He rolled kush every morning with his brown fingers.

The beach was waiting for us. It’s still there.





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Alan Chazaro is the author of This Is Not a Frank Ocean Cover Album (Black Lawrence Press, 2019) and Piñata Theory (Black Lawrence Press, 2020). He is a graduate of June Jordan’s Poetry for the People program at UC Berkeley, a former Lawrence Ferlinghetti Fellow at the University of San Francisco, and co-founding editor of HeadFake, an online NBA zine. Catch him on Twitter and IG @alan_chazaro.

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by Samantha Melamed

Good Morning, From a Dark Night

It’s not at all uncommon

But humble as the sparrow’s wing—

Extending itself just to what is already

There—to drink in the blue sky.

Just when I thought I alone

Woke up with a wooden tongue, the rain

Poured onto me, wakening me, like the

Sparrow’s call before the light

Sweeps her wing over the world,

Calling life into day,

Calling the bells to clank their dainty peal,

And the office workers to drink their coffee

And crank their cars out of the driveway.

Just when I thought I was lost.

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Samantha Melamed lives and writes in Washington. Her work has appeared in Cathexis Northwest Press, Raw Art Review, and The Centifictionist among other magazines. She can be reached at samantharmelamed@gmail.com.

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by Michelle Hollander

The Rub

Everyone knows that there are some things you share, others you share and later regret, and some you simply keep to yourself.

But when it gets late enough and you’re tired enough and you’ve had a drink or two too many, your Internal Censor calls it a night. It happens to the best of us, Sarah rationalized (knowing full well that she was not among the best of us, not in this regard, as she’d demonstrated yet again the night before).

She untangled herself from the sheets and tugged at the Vassar t-shirt she’d bought for Ben at her 20-year reunion, now a well-worn nightshirt. She found a cool spot on the pillow, closed her eyes, and pictured her Internal Censor as a little traffic cop in her head, like a character from one of the countless picture books she used to read to the boys. He’d raise his cartoon hand and blow his tiny whistle to direct thoughts to different parts of the body: to the mouth to be sent out into the world, to the neck and upper back to be stored as stress, to the chest to resonate a while as heartbreak or pride, or down deep in the belly to sit as longing.

Sometimes Sergeant Censor wisely directed thoughts to a remote region of the brain, way back behind her left ear, for thoughtful reflection. More often they landed there after visiting everywhere else first.

Her little traffic cop sucked at his job.

Ben’s was superb. He spoke just enough to engage and never so much to embarrass himself or anyone else. He slept soundly every night, while Sarah tossed and turned by his side, wondering how others— her friends and coworkers, Ben and even their young sons—were reacting to something she’d said or done.

But only days before she’d had the sweetest dream, and that dream was the centerpiece of the most restful night. And then last night—too late, too tired, too drunk—she mentioned that sweet dream to a table full of people. That was a mistake. She would not sleep well again for a while.

Still, despite the recounting of the dream, her reflection on the dream (it wound up in the right place eventually, tucked way back behind that ear) almost let her forgive herself for yet another misstep. Another sharp look from her husband. Another round of giggles from Olivia and Carrie, who often referred to her—an educated working mother!—as “cute” or “silly.” She should have known better than to expect them to understand. Ben had said as much to her on more than one occasion.

She stretched long on their king-size mattress and considered Ben’s absence in the wide space next to her. Was he angry, or did her husband, ever reasonable, see her dream for what it was: a happy family memory, albeit somewhat altered, from Dylan’s end of season wrestling party?

On that freezing winter day, the town community center had pulsated with the energy of 20 fifth-grade boys, hopped up on Sprite and cupcakes slathered with red and white frosting. And where was she? Standing by the door in her bright red “Property of Morris Wrestling” sweatshirt, watching the clock and hoping the whole thing would tie up before the forecasted snow started to fall (another 4-6 inches, as if the foot on the ground wasn’t enough already).

Ben, a wrestler himself right through high school, chatted with the coaches and their son, his arm slung over Dylan's broadening shoulders. Olivia and Scott mingled with the other parents while their twins bounced off the walls with the rest of the boys.

Olivia, she knew, would not be caught dead in a sweatshirt of any kind. 

That part was all true.

But then, in the dream, she and Ben had come together with Dylan and his coaches for a photo to commemorate the many challenging practices and day-long tournaments and hard-earned wins and disappointing losses. She saw herself wedged between Dylan and Coach Bill, Ben on the other side of their son, Coach Mark and Coach Rob in back, and Scott holding up her phone to snap the picture.

The smiles, the flash, the disentangling, and the rub – the palm of Coach Bill’s hand pressing on her cotton-covered back. It couldn’t have lasted 10 seconds. Just long enough for her to turn her head toward the coach and for him to give her a friendly wink.

That was all.

And it wasn’t even real.

But that feeling, that unexpected contact and momentary connection, stayed with her long after she woke up and started her day.

It felt real. And it felt wonderful.

Wonderful that she—Dylan and Steven’s mom and Ben’s wife and Wrestling Booster Club Treasurer (for both boys’ teams, which was no small commitment), who held a job no one typically asked about and ran 20 miles a week (but never bragged about it) and shuttled her sons to their myriad activities all while getting a decent meal on the table most nights—drew an actual pat on the back, or whatever exactly that was.

If nothing else, it was some attention. Some options. Something better than scraping up a squashed cupcake from the gritty floor while Ben and Dylan took an actual photo with the coaches (but what a great shot, with Dylan smiling so proudly and Ben giving a thumbs-up).

Only a dream. Nothing more.


***


The lights in the bar where they’d landed after a four-course dinner and many bottles of wine were so low, it was like being in that dim state right before sleep sets in. She was nestled against Ben, woozy and cozy and careless like a much younger version of herself who might kiss some boy she’d just met, a friend of a classmate visiting for the weekend or her roommate’s brother (never mind that she'd be spending Thanksgiving with their family!).

Or stay up all night reading a book that wasn’t even assigned (but what a great novel, how could she put it down?). Or volunteer in Costa Rica for two months to protect the sea turtles and have a torrid affair with the team leader, 11 years her senior and divorced (he said) because his wife didn’t share his passion for the turtles.

Back then, Sarah had passion for the turtles, for the team leader, for everything.

And she and her friends always had fabulous tales to share in the college dining hall, as they drank coffee and laughed and made insightful comments, completely certain that everything they did really, truly mattered.

The memory of them, decked out in Vassar sweatshirts and flannel pajama pants, their hair in perfectly messy ponytails, sent a blissful wave down Sarah’s middle-aged spine.

Maybe it was that hopeful openness to anything and everything that might come her way, that joyful ripple from neck to sacrum that pushed the dream into the forefront of her thoughts and then with one more push (where was that lazy Sergeant Censor when she needed him?), out her mouth.

“I had a dream a few days ago,” she’d said, her head against Ben’s shoulder, silver strands in her dark waves picking up the light, “I woke up with this crazy sense of possibility.”

Olivia had smirked and said, “I love when Sarah gets lit up. There’s always a good story!”

Ben might have rolled his eyes.

“Was it a sex dream?” Carrie leaned toward Sarah, as if asking her confidentially, but really, her words were loud and clear.

Sarah sat up straight, still close to her husband. “Well, no, not a sex dream. More like a connection dream.”

This time Scott rolled his eyes and Carrie elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “Let Liv tell us about the dream she had the other night. Now that was a hot one.”

“What a surprise. Our very own Siren of the Suburbs is going to tell a wild story,” Ben deadpanned.

Olivia leaned across the table and grabbed Ben’s hands in her own, her right breast spilling out of her soft V-neck sweater and her musky perfume infusing the air between them. “Wild is the way we roll, my dear Benjamin.”

She then turned her head ever so slightly toward Sarah and winked.

Sarah let her eyelids drop. She might have been concerned that one of her closest friends in town was pawing at her husband, while her other friend mocked her happy dream. But Olivia pawed at everyone (especially Ben), and Carrie was snarky with everyone (except Olivia, whom she adored). That was their way of connecting.


***


Sarah stared at the ceiling, her head heavy on the pillow, willing the scene at the bar to come into focus: drunk, cozy, dream, Carrie, sex, Olivia, sex, wink.

Predictable, really, until the wink. That was wrong.

That wink said, "You're with me on this, right?"

But no, Liv and Carrie, I'm not with you, and you're definitely not with me.

Coach Bill was with her in the dream, though. He wasn't leering or sneering. He was looking at her, acknowledging that the person he saw could be strong. Quick. Smart. He saw that she had potential, and yes, right then she saw it, too. Only a moment, a wink and his firm hand on her back, but it had filled her with anticipation for the day ahead. The possibility.

The door hinges creaked as Ben entered the bedroom, scrambling her thoughts. What else did I say after Olivia stole the spotlight, and Scott ordered more drinks?

“Hey Sarah,” Ben whispered as he gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Sleep in if you want. I brought home bagels.”

She waited for a frustrated sigh, a scold like, “You really have to stop drinking sooner, or stop talking sooner, or both. Seriously, Sarah, if you’ve got a thing for Bill Barnes, don’t tell a bar full of neighbors. And don’t tell me either. I’ll never be able to take Bill seriously again.”

But no, he even bent over to kiss her lightly on the cheek and then went into the bathroom to shower.

She flipped onto her side and took in the light coming through the blinds.

Maybe she was worried about nothing.

Maybe Sergeant Censor had done his job after all, and she hadn’t said anything more about the dream. 

And even if she had told them, so what? They’d have laughed, not with her but at her (she could imagine her Vassar friends, long scattered around the country, hissing at them, and oh, how that cheered her).

Maybe Scott or Olivia (or both) would let the dream slip to Coach Bill—oops!—over a few beers after a tournament next season. Bill would almost certainly shrug it off, and rightly so. It wasn’t a big deal anyway. Just a touch. Well, more of a rub, and a rub could mean anything or nothing.

Her eyes opened wide as she turned some pages in her head. To sleep, perhaps, or no, wait, it's perchance. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub.

She placed her palm on her chest and counted five beats.

I used to recite that Hamlet soliloquy by heart.

I used to do a lot of things.

A warm sensation moved from her lower back midway up her spine and down again. She imagined herself a genie-filled lamp, waiting for the right hand to hit the right spot to unleash the magic. The wishes. The spark.

She’d get up now, she decided, while the boys were still sleeping and Ben was in the shower. She’d make a pot of coffee and text Liv to tell her that Ben and the boys might come by to watch the game later, but she had plans of her own.

Perhaps a drive to Poughkeepsie and a stroll around campus? Lunch at that cute café and a visit to the bookstore? She hadn’t been to Vassar since reunion, and she might like a t-shirt that was actually her size.

Or maybe she wouldn’t plan at all. She’d just get in the car and drive. The possibility.

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Michelle Hollander writes from suburban New Jersey, where she has spent many years drafting non-fiction (and far too many PowerPoint presentations) in the corporate arena, and reading, discussing, and crafting fiction whenever possible. Her short stories have appeared in Canyon Voices, Monday Night and Backchannels.

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by Will Finlayson

Last of the Genghar

And they went to go check on Barto, who lived five miles east in the old wood, because he lived alone, and because he made the best genghar. And of course Barto was dead, the old man, dead on the toilet and slumped over with a pipe in his mouth. So they buried him and had a little funeral for him right there and they found the last of the genghar in the cellar and that was when it really landed that this was it, the last of Barto’s blue leaf they would ever have. And because it was the last of it, and because how would they ever decide how to share it, they said hey let’s smoke it all at once. One night. All of the genghar.

And so they tore down the soggy barn in the south fields they had always been meaning to tear down and they stacked all of the wood into a giant bonfire they lit at sunset. And they passed around spears with whole chickens on the ends of them, punched with garlic and herbs, to hold over the fire for roasting. Corncobs to throw in and fish out. Long links of salami strung up across poles.

And once the fire became coals they each took a handful of the genghar from out of the giant sack and each one took their turn to dump it over the red heat almost as if these were the ashes of Barto himself. Goodbye Barto, said everyone with a blue-dyed hand as the powdered stuff wafted up into a friendly silver cloud. See ya Barto as they took off their shirts and coats to whoosh the good smoke around in a heavy cloud that they gathered up in their nostrils.

And the ones who felt it slow helped the ones who went down fast, placing heads on pillows and tucking legs together, and everyone found a spot on the ground to lie down where they would feel the great feeling, the lifting and drifting all together like one spirit with a thousand bodies that all feel the same thing, and knowing that no matter where the genghar takes them they’ll feel the good of it, all of it, here together feeling how good it feels as they know it will and always has and for the last time forever and forever.

And when Roman is the first to wake up in the morning, he goes to wash his face and look out over the orange red valley and he sees everyone lying face down or face up in the dirt, and he laughs the great Roman laugh that wakes up everyone. So they all wake up laughing too, all of them. Oh good saint Barto, gone. The last sandy-mouth morning. Toppled bench and mug. Grooves in the ground where our bodies dug into the dirt. The last coals still dying and earth you can reach down and pick up in a fist.

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Will Finlayson’s work can be found in X-R-A-YHobart After DarkThe Southampton Review, and elsewhere mag, and he was chosen to be included in Best Microfiction 2019.

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by Will Finlayson

Bomb Shelter

One boom, two boom, and by three booms they’re all underground hatch closed like they’ve practiced. All forty-two from Downy Street head-counted and head-downed in the darkness. Boom-boom-badoom. Spread out a blanket or wall-squat and the kids have broken out the floor games and the gas lamps are going and by the end of can-of-bean dinner everyone’s lost and won gin rummy once. Mister Hampton carved a little owl in the wall where he was crouched. Erold’s snock snock snoring makes the kids giggle for an hour. Someone’s crying who’s crying. How did a frog get in. Water dripping from where. A shower with a rag. Teach me to waltz, Onn whispers to Jul. Sure, she says. Like this step, here step, good step and then the walls shake boom step, crash step, bang step and the others want to try now swing step, side step, good step. It’s enough to make everyone sleep well that night and wake up on time for can-of-bean breakfast and even lift the hatch and peek outside. Just a peek. The houses are still there. Sun on grass. Mud and mud and mud. A quiet. Let’s go out, huh? Why not? Let’s see how fine everything really is— come out and hey it’s all here. Looks like the bombs dropped two streets over and there go the kids to check it out take Jonny with you! The animals are hungry as always. The streets are wider than they remember. Look at that, see how good it all is, how good they’ve always had it all along up here. Fishing and releasing. Bake a pie, an apple pie, or oh! a rhubarb pie. A single cloud rains a single rain incredible. Maybe the war has ended. Maybe Maria will marry Bartolomu. Maybe Horace is back in the town square spinning a pig on the spit and humming all the while like he does.

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Will Finlayson’s work can be found in X-R-A-YHobart After DarkThe Southampton Review, and elsewhere mag, and he was chosen to be included in Best Microfiction 2019.

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