BLANK by Caroline Barr
by Caroline Barr
I think maybe youâre like the earring
I left at another manâs apartment.
The gold one, knotted like knuckles
looking for each other, the one my mother
told me do not lose this, you know the one.
Youâre like it because somehow Iâm not convinced
itâs gone.
No, itâs just at the bottom of my purse
or in a misguided pocket
or maybe the back of your throat.
Stuck where the move to California
shouldâve been, growing mossy and ever-itchyâ
do you feel it? Embedded in your Adamâs apple.
Itâs like that.
Like the feeling of trying to run
but you canât get past that first catch in your ankles.
Like that.
Itâs like this manâs breath on my neck when all I can think about
is how I canât believe I asked you to hold
my subway pass and debit card and my goddamn Chanel lipstick
and expected you not to lose them all.
Like that.
Itâs like laying on the dock and feeling the sun
pop each dusty skin cell into something I wish you would miss.
Like that.
Itâs like that.
Itâs like taking a shower, but the shower curtain is missing
and the air is cold and thereâs too much water on the floor
so I sit down.
Itâs like that.
Like me reaching up to my earlobe, blank
and thinking of you.
Caroline Barr is a native of Huntsville, Alabama currently pursuing a MFA in Poetry at The University of North Carolina, Greensboro. She is a contributing writer for ANNA Magazine, LLC, freelance blogger and editor, and has been previously published in Two Hawks Quarterly.
SONNET FOR SNAPPER CREEK by Maureen Seaton
by Maureen Seaton
Now Iâm almost killed (again) on the Snapper
Creek Expressway, my shadow left behind on
blacktop like a map of this precarious sinking
city. So I invent an odd task for myselfâ
ephemera, I decide, harmless but illegal, that
tissue in felon wind, a blip beneath radarâ
and I enjamb the law in small ways, felonious
poems sailing from the sealed lips of mermaid
sculptures, the tentacles of banyans, stuffed
into bottles I toss into Snapper Creek (the
creek, not the suicidal highway), begging fish,
fowl, and humankind: O, Miami, save us.
Sonnet for Snapper Creek first appeared in Panhandler Magazine.
IN THE PAINTER’S HOUSE by Hannah Dela Cruz Abrams
for Sully
In the painterâs house, we begin
with bourbon, our hair glued with bits of paper.
Orion hangs from every ceiling.
We bang our heads on clotheslines of drying stars.
The painter is making art from toilet paper
rolls and singing The Ways of Man. I am
smacking mosquitoes from my forehead
and announcing that in Ancient Egypt
the stars of Orion were the god Sah.
With some violence, the painter says,
Did you know I have a thing about holes. Tiny
holes. Things are not going the way we planned.
The painterâs two pigs sleep side by side
under the desk. The cat, who has walked
across the palette, snores with rainbow
feet. Upstairs the bunnies are mating.
Our ideas have run out and must be cut
with exacto knives from catalogues and taped
to our legs. The floor is littered now
with everything we hate, which is more and more,
and no one we love calls back, which is truer and truer.
Let me tell you, sometimes tiredness feels like despair,
and other times it can feel like gladdening.
In this endless night, we are bourbon-ing,
now taller than the sky, its watercolor stars,
its sheaves of gold hunters. Ink on our feet, ink in our teeth.
I once had a dream that when I wrote, my hair would grow
and grow. Two small children stood behind me
with giant scissors to chop it short
while I typed. That is was tonight feels like.
Like our hair is growing long. In the painterâs house,
we begin and stay and stay without ending.
All the animals are awake and cheering.
The painter calls, Give me an imageâ
THE SANTERA IN #4209 by Beverly Tan Murray
by Beverly Tan Murray
Yossiâs keys clanged as we trudged down the stairs. He said that back in the 60âs, this building was filled with Jews.
âYou couldnât take a shit without looking up and seeing a mezuzah,â he said. âThen the Cubans moved in. Nu? So here we are.â
When we got outside, the smells of ropa vieja drifted over from Puerto Sagua. Yossi lit a cigarette. âLook,â he began. âI donât even want to be a landlord. This is a favor for my sister, understand? $550 a month furnished, on South Beach? This is best deal.â I nodded and took in Washington Avenue at dusk, an adult Legoland burnished in amber brushstrokes. Then, carajo! A man sped past on his bicycle, narrowly missing Yossi by inches. Yossi swore. The man shook his fist, ass muscles flexing as he rode off in his tiny pink thong with a South African parrot on his shoulder.
âBen zonah!â screamed Yossi.
âIâll take the apartment,â I said.
It was March 16th, 2004. My third day in Miami.
On move-in day, La Gorda came over with a case of Mountain Dew. âFor when you thirsty,â she said, and told me that she lived two doors down in #4209, that my hair reminded her of her abuelita who was chinita too, and to please call her La Gorda because you know, and slapped her belly mirthfully. I stuck my hand out, and La Gorda laughed.
âMija, youâre in Miami now, you gotta learn how to kiss hello. Like this, mwah-mwah.â
On that Sunday morning when it rained so hard that the water sloshed up over the sidewalk, I went downstairs to do my laundry. La Gorda called down the stairwell as I staggered back up, still buzzed from the vodka Red Bulls I had swilled the night before. âLa Chinita linda!â she yelled. âYou busy?â I said no, I had no plans apart from re-hydrating and folding laundry. La Gorda took one look at my bloodshot eyes and laughed. âCome in,â she said. âI give you cafe con leche and psychic reading. I do for you free. Porque your energy â is que amazing.â
La Gordaâs apartment looked as though it was furnished by someone who was rushing to get to her destination, but got lost and set up camp along the way. She had lived in her unit for nine years, yet there was a palpable feeling of impermanence. One fold-up card table, four foldable chairs, a futon in the corner. The walls were completely bare, save for a small picture of San LĂĄzaro taped up above the transistor radio. For some reason, I felt like I was nine again, watching a movie that I was told not to watch. La Gorda shuffled out of the kitchen with a steaming cafe con leche and two slices of Cuban toast. âSit. Eat,â she said. âYou eat, I do reading.â
I sipped my cafe con leche as La Gorda reached into the bookcase behind her. She pulled out a drawstring purse, and emptied out its contents onto the table. They were small, round pebbles, the kind one would find at Home Depot. La Gorda explained that they were from Peru and had special powers, piedras mĂĄgicas, some extra strong juju from the old shamans whom you do not want to fuck with. She said that the stones could see everything â past, present, and future. They could foretell your destiny, divine the unique arc of your fate, no matter if you had glittering riches, or were a desamparado on the street. The stones, she wagged her finger. The stones always know.
As she mixed the stones with her hands, a low, guttural noise rose up inside of her. La Gorda rocked back and forth in her chair. Slowly, rhythmically at first. Then, faster and faster, picking up speed, until even the card table was thrumming an accompanying tune. âConvoco a los santos!â she yelled, throwing up her hands each time. âConvoco a los santos!â
I was no stranger to psychic readings. But my past experiences were limited to benign tarot card sessions with Irvine housewives in designer hippie gear. This was intense. When La Gordaâs eyeballs rolled back and she started sputtering in tongues, face flushing bright red as if running from a mob, I panicked. I briefly considered: Clearing my throat (she wouldnât hear me), asking politely if she was communing with anyone in particular (sheâd ignore me), and sitting quietly until she finished.
I chose the latter.
So we sat, La Gorda rocking and moaning and crying and pleading, arms raised to los santos for their ethereal wisdom, me eating Cuban toast in quiet horror. I watched as she invoked all manner of saints, her voice switching between a manâs bassy timbre, and a childâs soft whimper. Youâre bugging out, I scolded myself. Sheâs being nice.
Chill.
The rocking slowed to a few quiet creaks, then stopped. I looked up. La Gorda was glaring right at me, breath rising and falling in ragged gasps, beads of sweat dotting her upper lip. Scattered on the floor were the magic pebbles, which La Gorda pointed to with a snort.
âYou know what this say?â
âNo.â
âYou no have fe. You no believe in Jesus. You think you boss, yes?â
âIâm agnosticâŚâ I began to say, but La Gorda cut me off. The stones had spoken, the spirits had rendered their verdict. It was clear that all my woes were caused by a terrible lack of faith. But today was my lucky day, she said. For $40, she, La Gorda, would intercede on my behalf. She alone could plead with los santos to seek forgiveness from Jesus, the better to free my blackened soul, Dios mio.
My cynical side thought her pitch was pretty funny, but my instincts screamed bullshit. âUh, I think Iâm good, La Gorda,â I said. âBut thank you for your time. This was fun.â La Gorda pressed on. â$40 es nada. For $40, I make you free.â From certain misery, heartache from men, demonic possession. âSan LĂĄzaro talk to Jesus. Pero me, La Gorda â I talk to San LĂĄzaro. Comprende?â I nodded yes, and started toward the door. One thing about living in Miami â you learn quickly when shitâs about to get real.
La Gorda stood up. âYou pay me now,â she said. âFor all my time.â
âYou said it was free!â I protested.
She waved her hands irritably. The reading was free, the bargaining with San LĂĄzaro was extra.
I made it out of the living room, and halfway to the front door when I heard a blood curdling shriek.
âPuta!â she screamed. I turned to see the most horrifying thing Iâd ever seen. A Barbie doll, painted black, with her eyes gouged out. âYou will die four years from now! Exactly four years! Maldicion hacia tu! Puta!â A spitball flew at me and missed by inches. I sprinted to the front door and flung it open, La Gorda hot on my heels.
Before escaping, I did something completely out of character. I turned to face La Gorda, who was now half-singing a stream of curses with her eyes rolled back, whipping Demon Barbie back and forth in a furious interpretive dance.
âFuck you, La Gorda,â I said. âThose pebbles are bullshit.â Then I shot her the bird, slammed the door, and ran out.
A new case of Mountain Dew appeared on my doorstep three days later. An olive branch. By then, I had made friends with Carolina, the Colombian print model in #4310. Carolina had shrieked with laughter when I told her about my La Gorda episode. She told me that La Gorda had tried to fleece just about every newcomer to the building. That I had nothing to worry about, because La Gorda wasnât a real santera. Just a hustler from Matanzas, getting by on quips and folksy charm, surviving the only way she knew how.
âBut what do I do with this Mountain Dew?â I asked.
âI wouldnât drink it,â said Carolina. âJust in case.â
The possibly-cursed Mountain Dew stayed unmolested in my pantry for the rest of the year. Meanwhile, La Gorda and I settled into an uneasy truce. Iâd wave hello, and sheâd give me the whatâs up nod. From time to time, weâd make small talk about the carpet stains in the hallway, or the humidity outside. Gone were the offers of cafe con leche and Cuban toast, of prayers to save my mortal soul. On move-out day, La Gorda held the elevator door open as I trundled in a dolly of boxes. She wished me good luck, told me to call home more, and to light a candle to San LĂĄzaro every night.
On April 16th, 2008, I did not die. That night, I went out with my girlfriends and pounded shot after shot of Jägerbombs, not caring that I would upchuck them later in a torrent of vomit. The date had been circled in red ink on my calendar, a ticking psychological time bomb courtesy of La Gorda. Carolina was right. She was just a hustler, nothing more. Still, I stopped by the corner bodega to buy a candle to light for San Låzaro when I got home.
Just in case.
Beverly Tan Murray is a Chinese-American author who was born in Singapore and immigrated to California at age 16. She now resides in Miami with her husband and a terrier-mutt named Larry David. Beverly is a VONA/Voices alumnus, and has been published in the Huffington Post, AWAY Magazine, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, and Lime Hawk. She writes short stories about life in liminal spaces, and has yet to find the perfect carne asada taco.
AMERICAN GENERAL by Ernest White II
Diego flicked on the bathroom light as he let the door slam behind him. His mother probably didnât hear. Not with Mongo SantamarĂaâs syncopated percussion dancing a loud mambo from the record player in the living room out of the house through the open Plexiglas slats of the hurricane windows. The night was breezy, typical of late October, and the faint smell of oranges from the Valencia tree next door mingled with the dying aroma of garlic from the kitchen. While ferns danced in white, plastic pots suspended from the ceiling, his motherâs feet danced while she was busy working on a charcoal sketch of Cousin Laura. Mami wouldnât notice anything, especially since the gang of trick-or-treaters tapered off after nightfall, distracting her less often from the easel. Behind her, the glass case holding Diegoâs trophies vibrated with Mongoâs horns. The sweaty lifeguard t-shirt and gym shorts Diego had played basketball in earlier that afternoon hung languidly on his body. The sweat dried, making the cotton of the shirt feel papery against his skin. His mother had been bugging him about taking a shower all evening, but gave up after a half-hour of near-silence at dinner. She had cooked a pan of lasagna she bought at the Samâs out by 95 and baked a pumpkin cheesecake decorated with sixteen candy-striped candles. Diego had blown them out with a quiet thanks, slowly eating a section of lasagna that would have ordinarily taken him a few minutes to devour.
âWhatâs wrong, mi vida? Tired?â
âA little. Iâm really not that hungry, Ma.â
âYou have to eat something. You know how you love some lasagna.â
âIâll eat it later.â
âWell, what about your birthday cake?â
âMĂĄs tarde, Mami.â
Teena-Marie had serenaded them earlier and Marvin Gaye before that. Now it was Mongo and his bongos. Mongo peppering the entire street with his bongos. His mother always played her music loud, a habit Diego was quickly acquiring as his own music collection grew. âLoud-ass Puerto Ricans,â Diego knew the neighbors were mumbling under their breaths. They always did.
The fluorescent light showed moonlike in the clear water of the toilet bowl. Diego leaned over it, the curly shadow of his hair eclipsing the lightâs reflection. Dried urine stained the rim of the bowl, usually left a few days until his mother got tired of waiting for Diego to clean the bathroom only he and houseguests used. The stream of urine sputtered to a milky start, breaking through the film of dried semen from earlier in the afternoon and sprinkling clear droplets on the rim and floor. Diego sighed as he relieved himself, the light rippling in the bowl, the smell of the urine rising warmly from the stream. Once done, he stared as the ripples quickly became smaller, then stopped. Diego moved his hand from the shaft of his penis to the base, then ran his three middle fingers down the backside of his testicles along the warm, moist skin, slightly parting them. He raised his fingers to his nose and inhaled. It wasnât the first time heâd smelled himself. But it was the first time he smelled like someone else, like another boy at least. Diego realized this male commonality, earlier in the afternoon. Like a humid day at the beachâheady, sticky, salty, strong. Jennifer and Erica and Melanie and Jolene wereâŚdifferent. A different part of the beach.
âYo, D,â Ron had shouted. âI know your punk-ass ainât ready to take it to the court after school.â
âAh, nigga, you canât take me.â
âThatâs wussup, dog. Gym. Three oâclock,â Ron had challenged. âYou better have your high yellow ass out there, too.â
Three oâclock came.
âI jayed that shit right in your face, fool. And you supposed to be the center of the basketball team. You ainât shit.â
âOh yeah?â Ron spun around under Diegoâs left arm, then shot the lay-up off the backboard. âBim, muthafucka! Stick yo ass to the football field, bitch!â
The ball thwacked rhythmically against the painted wood, interspersed by squeaking rubber soles for a long while. Grunts. Sighs. Shit-talking. Elbows. Feet. A tripped body crashing into the floor, Diego wincing from the impact. Ron pinning him down. Grunts. Shit-talking. Ball bouncing, less and less high. Elbows. Ball rolling. Struggle. Knees. Sweat. Hands. Grunts. Knees. Shit-talking. Less. Resistance. Grunts. Breath. Awkwardness. Skin. Grunts. Hands. Lips. Grinding. Hips. Stiffness. Sweat. Breath. Wetness.
Rectangular, dark green tiles edged half-way up the bathroom wall, followed by white, fleur-de-lis-etched wallpaper that was beginning to curl slightly at the ceiling. The cold water was on, sounding like television static. A cartoon coqui grinned goofily from the bottom right corner of the bathroom mirror, holding a Puerto Rican flag. Diego stuck it to the mirror soon after he and his mother first moved into the house. He got a spanking for it, but she never peeled the sticker off. Diego looked at the dark, thickening hair underneath his nose. He looked at his lips, pinkish-beige, soft. Lips just touched by Ronâs lips. Ronâs lips which were fuller, browner, under darker, thicker hair. Lips like Sethâs. It wasnât right. Not right, to enjoy it so much. To enjoy stiffness over softness, angles over curves. Jolene, now that was right. A stallion. Fine, stacked, brick house. Track team. Thick thighs, hips, lips. Put her mouth anywhere. He could go over to her house right now and have her tongue all overâŚwhere Ron just had his. Heâd be sucking all on her chest, her breasts. Wasnât fucking right. Fuck. Fucked. Heâs fucked. They fucked. On the fucking gym floor. On the fucking pirate in the middle of the fucking gym floor. Where the fucking custodian could have caught them fucking in the middle of the fucking gym floor. That fuckinâ Ron and that fuckinâ Diego fuckinâ in the got-damn gym.
Tylenol and Campho-Phenique and Q-Tips and Speed Stick and Band-Aids and Dimetapp and Pepto-Bismol and Aqua Fresh and Plax and Vaseline and Reach Floss and 70% Isopropyl Alcohol Rubbing Compound and nail clippers and tweezers and African Royale Hot 6 Oil and Palmerâs Cocoa Butter Lotion and Lusterâs Pink Oil Moisturizer Hair Lotion and a container of double-edged American General razors. The light flashed in the mirror as Diego closed the medicine cabinet. Mongoâs bongosflutessaxophones still thumpedblewsang, muted, through the bathroom door. Through Diegoâs head. Loud-ass Puerto Ricans. Erica, she gave the best head. Loud, crazy-ass Puerto Ricans. Best head he ever had before today. Faggot-ass Puerto Rican. He rotated the plastic razor container slowly in his right hand a couple of times, then slipped one of the thin strips of metal out of the package with his thumb. The box fell into the sink, sliding to the bottom and resting on the stopper, doused under the running faucet. STEEL RAZOR read the shiny silver thing between his right thumb and index finger. It felt cold, wet. But it was dry. âHave your high yellow ass out there.â High yellow. He wasnât high yellow now like he would be in January, when the season was over and he wouldnât be outside as much. He was low yellow. He was almost red. He even had to look hard to see his veins. He wasnât yellow, he was red. TaĂno. Fuck it, he was black. Strong black man. Mandingo warrior. Uncut, baby! Shit, ask Jennifer. Erica. Ron. Fuck.
Diego stared, engrossed at the bluish channels of life beneath his skin. He traced the blade flatly against the dermis, scratching white streaks of dead cells. He wondered if he should slit across, matching the creases just below his palm. Or should he trace downward, following the vein south like a road map. Bracial, basilic, bronchial, one of them muthafuckas. Who the hell pays attention in class anymore? Right? No. Not fucking right. The steel traveled slowly, determinedly, leaving an expanding trail of crimson staining the road map of his left arm. Jacksonville to Miami. He only got just beyond Titusville, and barely half that distance on the right arm before the blade fell into the sanguine lake already forming on the tile.
Sitting under the sink, life coursing rhythmically from his body, Diego didnât know if he made any noise when it happened. Mongo didnât stop bongoing. Mami didnât shout, âDiego, que fue?â The earth didnât stop spinning. Crazy Puerto Rican. The bathroom light didnât go out. Letting another boy touch you like that. The water in the sink didnât stop running. Do stuff to you. The red on the floor looked black, reflected in the green tiles of the wall. That shit ainât right. Loud-ass Puerto Rican. You ainât right. Loud, crazy, faggot-ass Puerto Rican. What the fuck were yâall doing? Ron? Ron, what the fuck you doinâ, man? Ronâs tongue entered Diegoâs mouth, silencing his protests, their kisses echoing in the deserted gymnasium.
Ernest White IIÂ is a storyteller and explorer. He is the creator of multicultural travel portal Fly Brother, a contributing writer at literary travel journal Panorama, a former assistant editor at Time Out SĂŁo Paulo, and founding editor of digital menâs magazine Abernathy. A Florida native, Ernestâs obsessions include Indian curry, SĂŁo Paulo, and Rita Hayworth.
VENUS DE MILO WITH HER LOVER by Caroline Barr
by Caroline Barr
You can open me. Unwrap
these sheets and pullâjust
slowly, though, and lick your
fingers firstâpull my left
breast out and find the note
you wrote to your kindergarten
love. All xâs and oâs and crayon
devotion. Reach further, the tube
of lipstick your babysitter forgot
in the couch cushions has rolled
to the back. Remember how she
taught you spin-the-bottle?
With those dark berry lips. Now,
move your hand to my knee, spilling
over with the coarse-ground grits
you knelt on for ten whole minutes
when your mother caught you
watching porn. You couldnât even pull
up your boxers first. Scoop them out
and find the broken condom. The back-seat
night that almost made you a man
too soon. This is what built you, these
wide-eyed nights stinging red like a fresh
tattoo only I can see. Here, kiss me.
Rest your head on my ribs. I am not afraid
of knowing you.
Caroline Barr is a native of Huntsville, Alabama currently pursuing a MFA in Poetry at The University of North Carolina, Greensboro. She is a contributing writer for ANNA Magazine, LLC, freelance blogger and editor, and has been previously published in Two Hawks Quarterly.