Betsy Sholl

The Mercy

Late night stun and no need to speak after the hospice call was the mercy. Morning sun like a fat raccoon in the tree, the moon grown flimsy as a nightgown, and the sky holding. That your suffering was over. Tulips opening all the way, and the jay or the mockingbird doing the jay. Morning was always a mercy, it owed us nothing and still woke us happy to live on a street with a firehouse and three schools, the mercy of taxes to pay for them. That there was not a slave ship called The Mercy is a mercy. That between us we knew all the verses to “Maggie’s Farm,” and could sing them out when talking heads talked war. Rainbow flags in windows, James Baldwin quoted on lawns, marches through town to city hall—we owed that to the mercy. Students who said they couldn’t, who couldn’t see they already had, that I could show them was the mercy. That I learned mercy from you, your smile, your hand on my shoulder, the way you could listen and speak calm to trouble. That your words come back. The knuckle you broke playing ball, the hair on your arms turning blond in summer, your gentle tug at the hem of my nightgown. Our children and their children are the mercy. That I saw the mercy you poured into me. That when you were empty, I could pour it back all over you. That I loved you to the end is the mercy. That there is no end.

The Starling

It must have been young, must not have known a shut window is a wall. My landlady and I were talking in little circles around the matter of her raising the rent when we heard a thud and found on the patio a small bird not trying to flit away or hide. Seeing the thin stripe running down its face, red like the cellophane strip around a pack of cigarettes or gum, my landlady pronounced it no longer a tenant of this world. But I thought I saw its beak move, its eyelids flutter, and because I’ve watched starlings tear into a neighbor’s insulation to nest under her eaves, and have seen them crowd out other birds at the suet, I didn’t think one could die that easily, or maybe at all. My landlady said it might carry disease, so I got a dustpan to scoop it up, then held it, hoping that talky breed of bird, brash destroyer of anything built to keep it out, would stir and join its constellation, one of those flocks almost uncountable as stars, that gathers over highways and fields swerving like metal shavings drawn by a magnet, each bird sensing the vectors of the whole, when to soar as one body, when to settle down and feed on a farmer’s field. Thus they are also called an affliction, a scourge. Easy to disparage a whole group—say, the homeless building tent cities in the park. But a lone soul? I looked and it could have been me rain-drenched standing with my sign on the median strip, me in the dustpan, then tossed on a leaf pile. Which is why I visited the bird each day until it was gone. It was a small death I could bear, could prod with a stick and learn that its wings weren’t solid as I assumed, but made of panels like a hand of cards it could fan out and close, a magical deck, each black card spackled with white dots that shimmered like stars, or the fringe of a fortune teller’s shawl as she lays out the future of us all— the whether and when, and how much flight before fall. Those brittle grape stem feet, the voiceless beak half open, as if stuck between wonder and dread— mine I thought. And on the last day, before something dragged it away or it otherwise took off—there, alighted on its eye, the bright iridescent blue of a sunstruck blowfly.

Like a Wounded Dog

In this neighborhood night, any jostle could make you beggar, griever, kicked animal

if you don’t swallow your sob, bury it with some bog woman in her little cap

and noose, the flesh of her sunken cheek preserved under a millennium of tannins.

Go ahead, nod to the town’s retired judge catching hold of a lamppost, flask in hand,

as if drink’s how he drowns out the sound of his gavel coming down hard, too hard

it seems now in this dusk hour when passersby disperse and traffic’s erratic.

If the church is still open, is empty enough, cleansed of opinion and threat,

then standing in the doorway, you might hear the flicker of a prayer, how it wants

to be alone, be loved, wants to lose itself in the flare of the candle an old woman

tips to another, wants to be the buzz

at her lips, believing God hears everything—

the slow drip of wax, dust falling

on a stone shoulder, the sob under the sneer

of a desultory boy smoking on the steps,

the slam of bars echoing down corridors

in the judge’s head—hears and answers

tonight with one whole and numinous moon

rising between houses. And all right,

this doesn’t solve a thing,

it changes nothing, except you stop

and let whatever’s been dogging you catch up,

all of you quiet now, as if you’ve been heard, whatever it was under what you were saying.

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Betsy Sholl’s ninth collection is House of Sparrows: New & Selected Poems (University of Wisconsin, 2019), winner of the Four Lakes Prize. Her eighth collection, Otherwise Unseeable won the 2015 Maine Literary Award for Poetry. She was Poet Laureate of Maine from 2006 to 2011, and currently teaches in the MFA Program of Vermont College of Fine Arts.

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Mark DeCartaret

They Year I Went Without Having Any Sense of Direction

I dropped off my parents at the trailhead. They were very old. And underdressed. And had nothing in the way of power drinks or nuts. Not even a small bottle of water between them. Neither of them had ever shown any interest in mountain climbing before. But I respected their wishes. As I had always done in the past. And so, I waved to them. Shouted out—“Watch out for the bears. Don’t catch rabies.” And then went back to town to have dinner with friends. On the way over, lights started to swing from the trees. Hailstones pelted the patios. And some wires had fallen into the streets. Where they tried to find rest amongst the sparks. Since the last time I’d seen my two friends they had taken up smoking and drinking. Neither were very good at it. They squinted. And didn’t know how to hold their cigarettes. And kept spilling their whiskey on the motel furniture. Telling me about how their fortunes had turned for the worse. I had the feeling their marriages were not doing well. And while usually eager to bring up their children in conversation. They now kept them hidden away. Except to say they were late with their cell phone payments. Had bad drug habits. And had been arrested for stealing cars. And setting small fires. I told them how I had dropped off my parents at the trailhead earlier. Underdressed. Without a dried apricot. Or a compass. And my friends were horrified. Squinting even harder. Dropping their cigarettes to the floor. You have to call in a rescue team, they said, right this minute. As they poured themselves more whiskey. And looked around for first aid kits. And what they kept referring to as “a good length of rope.” Those mountains are no place for parents. Especially very old ones like yours. And as the one I’d known longest blew a stream of smoke into my eye. It hit me. How every way they’d thought ill of me held some truth. And how these truths were sometimes ruthless in their lie-making. Once we met with the rescue team, I couldn’t remember the name of the trailhead. There seemed to be bears in all of them. Bear River Float. Bear Shoulder. Bear Whistle Lake. Even a Bear Asleep Between Two Ghostly Figures. Well, without the exact name we’re not going to be of much help,” said the rescue team member with the walkie talkie and a scar, that looked like a spill, on his lip. And with that, put their rescue dogs back in their crates and left. We’ll just have to search for them ourselves, said the friend I hadn’t known as long. Stubbing out her cigarette dramatically. And volunteering to drive. We ate the snack cakes they had brought. A brand I remember snacking on nonstop as a child. Liking their taste. But liking more guiding the cream out with my tongue. And then sticking the golden cakes onto the ends of my fingers. Stage wrestling matches between them. And then less than a mile out of town, we happened to spot my parents at the Radio-Collared Bear Dollar Store. They looked less old. And fitter. Wearing ponchos they’d had the whole time. Folded into squares. And slipped down into their socks. Along with some salt tablets. We texted you our location, they told us. Along with an ETA. The blue bugles are quite lovely this time of year. We took lots of pictures. Hopefully, they came out. The Year I Went Without Reading (All About it) to Wayne I was your normal lad. For all of one day. Born from the mating of this ship and some ice. Which were tamed by the cold depths of their love for each other. I’ve been holding my breath ever since. And so has my twin. Who leads off every sentence by clearing my throat. And me, his. Then holding that one note. Not really a note. Sound trapped between contestant and host. Patterning itself on the soon to be dead air. So, who ghosts whom the most? It’s no matter. I deal in old news. And he deals in new. And together, we operate as a work-in-progress, crew. Me, only dealing in a past one part spirit to one part Arctic trip. He, in a future entirely free of references. No more lovely an example of what is. The moon rid of our wishes. Outnumbering all our desires. Does nobody understand? I must still kneel at the shrine of the once Irish poet. Who was known to extract song. From a briefcase. Or a stack of bones. The wreck of a wreck of a wreck. Because I lack the skills. To liken the world. To any one word. Divine the least foreboding of lines out the watery chill without killing it. And scare much too easily. Think so ill of myself. I’ll willfully take a seat at that table of has-beens. Or even worse, never-seen-to. Unable to eat of their cast-offs. Or drink of their aftertaste. But then, look how the sun forms a near perfect circle. And then sets it aflame. Losing all that has passed. For a soul in name only. What a morning. What a morning!

The Year I Went Without Updating My Resume

I had tired of action verbs. Cunning ways to sell the world on my mastery of Magnetic Operating Leases. Had drunk dry all the facts about energy drinks. And had had my fill of liking my life skills, miracle whipping myself into shape, and hobby horsing around with a favorite craft. I gave no thought to my headings. Or how vague my goals were. My history was a blur. My sure things a ruse. And my wi-fi was like all those flies they would’ve loved to be on my wall. I couldn’t highlight the sun. Or speak fondly of a keepsake. I would first go at them with a slogan. You shouldn’t wear the socks until you’ve agreed to read the book. Then would over-employ the word “Dope.” And finally sign off with a worrisome cough, an even more worrisome grin. The suggestion they sing every bit of it. To the tune of “Living on a Prayer.” And in between deal with my ex-tended family, wife. In a section I’ve cleverly titled. What little did we know and do so less now. Is it any wonder I mislead my readers? Am met with hisses and simulated threats, this mess of illegible marks, by the team? I was never one to optimize. Post my SAT scores. Or try to keep it sort of short. In a font that says, “Not Taking No for an Answer.” I write poetry for fuck’s sake! I spent an eternity temping. Having my pals in gym running laps around me. Pretend-slapping me. My muse has long assumed that I’m already dead. Who cares about errors or soft spots? I’m still tops in no class you’ve ever heard of. Opting to use my skull. To toast its own vacancies. Wish my brain future luck. I’m getting so low on grape flavored paper. And felt lettering. I might just have to end with a dot-to-dot. Tend to the unfriendly fire of my half-loaded imagination.

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Mark DeCartaret's poetry has appeared in 500 literary reviews.

Collage by Wayne Atherton. Wayne attended Massachusetts College of Art 1969-1972 and served as senior editor of The Café Review from 1992 to 2019 where he promoted the

work of local, national, and internationally renowned poets and artists. He began

making mixed media collages and assemblages circa 1990 and has built a

substantial body of work in those particular mediums ever since. His work has

appeared in several gallery exhibitions, online, in print, and in poetry book

collaborations. A broad sampling of his life’s work may be viewed at,

www.legbaland.com

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Elizabeth Cranford Garcia

10 Ways to Get to Chattanooga’s National Cemetery

i. Cross Holtzclaw, pass the tracks, the gravel lot attended only by concrete blocks, a blue hatchback, the back half of a truck squatting between two oaks, as if the owner thought he had nothing left to carry.

ii. If it’s cold the night before, burrow under a hill of quilts. Stay just this side of warm to dream you’re in some auditorium with dream friends, carrying all the suitcases.

iii. Catch up with a friend and her losses: a baby. Her eyesight for a few days last week. And for a few moments of summer last year, her son and husband, sucked into the ocean, dashed against the rocks as she stood there watching, waiting to see if they would resurface.

iv. Among all the scrawled Beloveds, recognize the line It is Well With My Soul: a British minister’s wife and daughters go down in the Atlantic. With one telegram, he loses them all to a cold god, like Job.

v. Watch the white-haired man

stand by the white stone, alone.

Wrestle your urge to

ask, to stand by him. Watch him

blow his stiff hands, also stone.

vi. Dream of your aunt, first to go, but slowly, her body shriveled to metaphor: it happens in a bed, it happens when you smoke cigarettes, it happens even when you go back to church, it leaves cousins to wedge into the last inch of your parents’ attention, like socks in a suitcase corner.

vii. Count the years (ten) your grandmother waited for it, grandpa long gone. They’d found him past the live oaks in his neighbor’s field with a tiller, one hand gripping his shirt pocket for pills.

viii. Did I mention the minister’s wife was reclaimed by a passing ship? Her name was Anna, meaning “God has favored me.”

ix. If the flag atop the hill waves at half mast, ask a caretaker. Learn there was a recent burial, that you have misread as history the white stones dotting the field like braille, the codes we make of loss. They are instead like the dominoes your own son lines up to topple, to watch its physics, what any minute might give way.

x. Notice the adjacent lot: blue graffitied warehouse, lone caboose, stray terrier scurrying down the road—the palpable fallacy. One sign proclaims they’ll rebuild the whole abandoned block and call it Lucey Quarter, inviting light, this time, to stay.

I give my five-year-old a book of facts on tornadoes

Joe-plin M.O. has the most tornadoes.The purple dots are tornadoes. She tells grandma, Joe-plin M.O.

has lots of tornadoes. Asks me, Have you seen a tornado? No, never. They live on the prairie, wild things

that kick up tumbleweed and debris. She tells the dinner guest Joe-plin M.O. is where the tornadoes live,

they kick up debris like herds of ponies. Asks from the backseat What is tornado season? pictures them collecting on the deck, like winter white, like fallen leaves, like pollen greening everything in spring.

If the clouds are sickly green, it’s a danger sign.A sign a tornado is near is debris,

from the French debrisier, it’s what can bruise you: pieces of wood, yield signs.

The S is silent, like awe. It’s objects falling like leaves, or rain. She collects

storm axioms: Don’t open windows, don’t get in cars. Lie in a ditch,

unless it’s raining. Make yourself the smallest possible target. A tornado will suck up a whole pond of frogs, rain them down on a nearby town,

which makes her laugh: frog rain! What is tornado season?

It’s the weather coming for us. Is there a season for the world

to end, the way jonquils poke accusing fingers from the dirt

in spring? Snails are vanishing in Hawaii, firefly flames snuffing out all over the South, coastal mangroves

receding, lizards in the gum swamp churning out fewer

and fewer females. When the frogs fell on Pharoah,

he wouldn’t yield, said instead NO, NO, NO. In Joe-plin M.O.,

people were sucked through the windows of the hospital,

became debris, they fell like rain, like yield signs,

like frogs. Things made into rain that are not made

for rain. Target trash turned to shrapnel.

Don’t open windows, don’t lie in a ditch.

The bathtub is the safest place. The strongest

will flatten all the trees in a forest. The book shows

a bathroom surrounded by debris, you can still see

a pink flower on one yellow bedroom wall.

She sucks her thumb, strokes my hem.

Tonight before bed she’ll kiss me in her ritual

of kisses: lips, cheek, other cheek,

forehead, nose, then say

I hope you don’t die,

a sacrament

of kisses,

like blood

on the lintel. We read the chances of meeting a tornado are the same as being struck by lightning, or eaten by a shark. So now the cloud is raining sharks, shark debris: teeth, blood and little fish. She tells me she dreamed we took the bird and the bunnies down to the basement, and we were safe. When is tornado season? The weather will come for us in spring. She asks are tornadoes real? She drifts to sleep thinking I am the smallest possible target.

Firework Display Subtext —July 3, Kennesaw, Georgia

Bless this land, its hallowed, bloody field. Bless the dead, the ones who gave it to us, the ones who die daily to keep me stockpiled and blessed. Yes, bless and bulwark us against the dark precarious. Bless them in the dirt, whatever can bless the dead, the inert. If I say it tisking open my Pabst, won’t that make it worth it? Bless our Buc-ees, all our Dollar Generals, their ranks of goods, our dollars churning out machines, bless our whole machine churning out loss, like popcorn. Bless our sky of colored light, whole sky of smoke, of microwave popcorn.

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Elizabeth Cranford Garcia’s work has or will appear in journals such as Tar River Poetry, Chautauqua, Cider Press Review, Portland Review, CALYX, Tinderbox Poetry, Dialogist, SoFloPoJo, Mom Egg Review, and Anti-Heroin Chic. She is the recipient of the 2022 Banyan Poetry Prize and three Pushcart nominations, serves as the current Poetry Editor for Dialogue: a Journal of Mormon Thought, a Georgia native and mother of three. Read more of her work at elizabethcgarcia.wordpress.com.

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