< Back to Breakthroughs Issue Stargazing Mary Behan “I’m going outside to look at the stars. Do you want to come? It’s a perfect night for it; it’s still warm and there’s no moon.” Marilyn tried to inject as much enthusiasm into her request as possible, knowing that the invitation to her husband to walk uphill to the meadow behind their house was probably not going to be accepted. Each evening after dinner when he had cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, Kenny settled into his upholstered recliner with a sigh of pleasure and switched on the television. Within a few minutes, the authoritative voice of a male presenter describing a car restoration project would drift into her “lair,” as she liked to call her sewing room. Years earlier when she had been bitten by the quilting bug, Kenny had added a room to their bungalow. It was a bright, sunny space from which she could just see the hilltop meadow, the colors of which, as they changed with the season, gave inspiration to her quilting designs. This room was where she spent most of her evenings, and much of her days since retiring from her job at the local bank. “I’ll pass this time, if you don’t mind,” Kenny said. “There’s a program I’d like to finish watching. Remember, I told you about my ’64 Corvette? The one this guy is working on looks exactly like mine. Same color too.” His audible sigh was followed by, “Boy, I should never have sold it.” Passing through the living room, Marilyn gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek before pulling on a fleece jacket and going outside. Theirs was a happy marriage of nearly forty years. Each of them had been married previously, but as neither had brought children to their union, their love was focused on each other. Kenny gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his fingers lingering for a moment before releasing her. “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” she said, but doubted her comment was heard over the sound of the television. Outside, the air had a moist, nutty smell – a harbinger of the approaching Winter. The silhouette of a massive maple tree guided her towards the path. Passing by, she noted that the leaves were devoid of color whereas earlier in the day she had been stunned by their range of hues, from pale yellow to vibrant red. That morning she had watched, enthralled, as dozens of leaves detached themselves in a spontaneous gesture of exhaustion, and drifted to the ground in a blur of color. All through the day she had mused over how she might translate this visual miracle onto a canvas of cloth. The quilt would feature a pile of colorful newly fallen leaves, together with the figure of a child, their arms outstretched in a moment of joyful abandonment. It was an easy climb to the meadow. Cresting the hill, she went a little farther so as to block out any stray light from the house. Here there was a natural dip, deep enough to be sheltered from any breeze, yet shallow enough to see the full panorama of sky. She lay down on the cool ground and deliberately closed her eyes. From previous experience, she knew this would hasten her dark adaptation, and maximize the experience when she opened her eyes and looked up into the sky. It was easy to keep count of the seconds and minutes. For some unexplained reason she was able to hear her heartbeat in her right ear — a steady sixty-four beats per minute. The tinnitus had developed after a routine ear cleaning, but her doctor reassured her it was nothing to worry about and that it would likely go away. But it hadn’t gone away. During the day she could ignore it for the most part, and at night had taken to sleeping on her right side to muffle the sound. Now as she listened, the steady pulsatile thrum dominated the night sounds — the hoot of an owl, a coyote’s howl, some small creature rustling in the grass, the plaintive wail of a train. One hundred beats later, she opened her eyes to view her personal planetarium. A tiny gasp escaped her as she tried to absorb the immensity of the sky. Her eyes first sought out familiar constellations, starting with the Big Dipper and from there following a line to the North Star. Orion with its distinctive belt was just beginning to appear over the edge of her horizon. She recognized Cygnus to the east, a grouping that often eluded her, but this evening did indeed look like a swan. High above, the irregular “W” shape of Cassiopeia came into focus. But it was the Milky Way that held her gaze, sweeping across the arc of the night sky from north to south. It was easy to understand why Native Americans from Chile to Alaska had thought of the Milky Way as a pathway for departed spirits, connecting the earth with the otherworld. Staring at it now, it seemed to engulf her, sucking her into its swirling interior. In the stillness, she listened but could no longer hear the beating of her heart. * * * It takes some time to get used to being dead. For a start, the whole idea of time is different. It’s not linear like in life, but seems to be interrupted, as if you were reading a book and skipped a chapter or two, leaving you struggling to reconnect with the story. The past is irregular too, like watching tiny snippets of black and white movies punctuated by blank sections. There’s no future, or at least I don’t recognize it. Sometimes I feel as if I have been dropped magically into an ongoing stage play, where none of the actors notice my presence. They just continue with their lines, moving through me without missing a beat, and yet I am there on stage with them. I can remember that final evening on top of the hill behind our house, lying on the ground looking up at the Milky Way. I came back to the house and went into the kitchen where a light was still on; the rest of the house was in darkness. Things seemed a little out of place. A book I had left on the counter, planning to return it to the library the following morning was gone, but I guessed Kenny had put it in the car so I wouldn’t forget it. A couple of other things had been moved. But the biggest change was that he had replaced the toaster on the countertop by the sink with a brand-new air-fryer oven. He had talked about getting one for me at Christmas, so this was a lovely early present. In our bedroom I could make out his bulky form under the comforter, but resisted the urge to wake him and tell him how pleased I was. Instead, I lay down on the sofa. I became aware of two voices coming from the direction of the kitchen, neither of which I recognized. When I looked, a young couple was sitting at the table, the remains of a meal around them. He was tall and dark-skinned, and had a pronounced Indian accent. She was short and pretty, her voice carrying the rounded consonants and dragged-out vowels of the Midwest. “Who are you?”, I asked, “and where’s Kenny?” I was irritated by their intrusion and annoyed with Kenny for not letting me know we were going to have guests. They ignored me and continued talking. I walked to the table and stood awkwardly between them, looking from one to the other. Again I asked the question, this time more forcefully. Still they didn’t make any effort to respond, so I grabbed the man’s arm and shook it. “Look here. I’m talking to you. How dare you…” It was then I realized that I couldn’t feel his arm, that my hand made no impression on the sleeve of his shirt. I reached out with my other hand, this time tentatively, and tried to pick up the knife that lay beside his plate. Nothing. I returned to the living room and looked around more carefully. For a moment I thought I had developed cataracts. The room had a washed-out appearance, like you might see in an old photograph — not quite black and white, but what little color there once was had faded. The furniture had been rearranged to face a huge flat screen TV, something Kenny and I had sworn we would never buy. I continued down the corridor to my sewing room. On the large work table where my sewing machine sat, all traces of quilt-making were gone, replaced by a laptop computer and neat stacks of papers and journals. I could still hear their voices in the kitchen as I went through every room in our house, searching for signs of Kenny or me. There were some — pieces of furniture mostly — but any sense that we had lived in this house for almost forty years together was gone. I know it sounds ridiculous, but when I couldn’t find our electric toothbrushes in the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror. It was only then I finally understood: I had died that night under the stars. But why had I come back to my house as a ghost? I asked that question again and again over the next several months. Even though time had little meaning, I knew that months were passing because I could see Mary Anne’s belly getting bigger. The couple now living in our house were Mary Anne and Arjun and she was pregnant with their first child. From conversations I overheard, I gathered they had met while they were at university. Now they were working at two different Biotech companies in the nearby city. It wasn’t as if I deliberately eavesdropped. It was just that when they were in the house, I was aware of them and heard everything they said. It struck me as odd that I could both hear and see, yet I had no ability to feel anything or move an object. Smell and taste were also absent. In life that would have been a hardship, but now I hardly noticed. It was the absence of touch that affected me the most. Time and time again I would reach out to stroke a piece of fabric or put my hand over the stovetop and try to capture its heat . The absence of any sensation was a cruel reminder of my new state . I could still watch clouds drifting across the sky, see pine branches trembling in the wind, or look at birds alighting on the feeder — all things I used to enjoy when I was alive but now gave me little pleasure. What did give me pleasure was hearing Kenny’s name or mine. Little by little I pieced together what happened to me that night. I had a cerebral aneurism that burst, ending my life instantaneously. Even if Kenny had found me, it wouldn’t have made any difference. As it was, he slept soundly through the night, only realizing that I wasn’t beside him in bed when he woke the following morning. He blamed himself for not going with me, choosing instead to watch that television program. But the aneurism could just as easily have burst when I was with him, perhaps when I was driving which would have ended both our lives. I think he might have preferred that outcome, for, according to Mary Anne and Arjun, he was depressed and had lost all interest in life. I might not have been able to feel, in the sense of feeling an object, but even as a ghost I could still feel . Just as with the faded images and scenes, my emotions were also diminished; but they were still there. I still felt love for Kenny, and I missed him deeply — the pleasurable anticipation of seeing him when I walked into the room, a smile lighting up his face when he saw me. I missed basking in his loving gaze, touching his hand, kissing his cheek, being hugged by him. * * * Mary Anne looked up from her computer and stared out the window of her home office. The maple tree that dominated their backyard was at the peak of its Fall colors, she guessed, noticing a few leaves drifting gently to the ground. She decided she would ask Arjun to hang a swing from one of its thick lower branches next year; that is, if they were still living here. For several weeks now, they had been negotiating with Kenny to buy the property. Meanwhile, his nephew had advised him against a direct sale, pointing out that he could get far more money if he listed the house with a realtor. As renters, they would have to leave once a sale was finalized. In her mind’s eye, Mary Anne could see herself swinging back and forth lazily, surrounded by color, while her son played in the circle of leaves beneath the tree. Lost in this vision, she didn’t hear the car on the driveway and was startled when Arjun burst into the room. “He’s going to sell the place to us!” Arjun said, stooping to wrap his arms around his wife. “We don’t have to move.” The relief in his voice was palpable. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “At the price we offered?” “Yeah.” Arjun nodded vigorously. “After all, it’s not as if we’re asking him to fix any of the things the building inspector came up with. Still, I was afraid he might change his mind at the last minute. His nephew has been talking to him again.” “It’s a fair price, and I think he likes the idea of us living here, especially with the baby coming.” Mary Anne moved Arjun’s hand to her belly. “Can you feel him kicking?” Arjun kissed his wife on the lips. “I am the luckiest man alive.” “You are indeed,” she replied, with a laugh. “Actually, we both are. And we’ll never be able to thank your parents enough. I know they have lots of money, but still…” Arjun kissed her again. “They love you, and now that they’re going to have a grandson, they love you even more. Besides, it’s now that we need their money, not in fifty years’ time.” Groaning slightly, Mary Anne got up from the chair. “Tell me about the visit with Kenny. I feel badly not going with you, but the place depresses me. I’m certain the baby feels it too.” She stroked her belly protectively. “It’s alright. I don’t mind going there. I know in the beginning I had an ulterior motive, but over the past few months I’ve come to enjoy our chats. Kenny is an interesting old guy with lots of great stories. Today when I got there, everybody was in the day room, so I asked if I could take him to the conservatory — that glassed-in area off the dining room. It was a little chilly, but at least we had some privacy. We had a good conversation and in the end we shook hands on the deal. He’ll call his lawyer tomorrow and get things rolling. He asked how you were, by the way. I think he likes the idea of a new baby in the house. He and Marilyn never had children; I think his nephew is the only relative he has.” “Did you tell him he can come and visit any time he wants.” “I did of course. But to be honest, he’s so weak, I doubt if he’ll be around much longer. All he talks about now is that he’ll be with Marilyn soon.” “That’s so sad.” Mary Anne made a wry face. Arjun shrugged. “He believes it. I suppose that’s all that really matters.” * * * The thought of my husband spending his final months in a nursing home surrounded by strangers made me sad. I wondered what would happen to him when he died. How would he find me? Up to now I had never encountered another spirit, neither in the house nor in the surrounding farmlands. There was nothing more to learn indoors, so I began to roam the woods and fields around the house, often at night when the absence of light made little difference to my wandering. One night I made my way to the hilltop pasture and the spot where I had died. I lay down in the grass and looked up into the vastness of the universe. The Milky Way was shimmering above me, and as I stared at it, the banner of stars seemed to descend. I raised my hand with fingers outstretched as if to touch one end of this band of light. For a moment I wasn’t sure, but then I felt something. I felt something. Fingers brushed against my hand, then entwined themselves in mine. I brought Kenny’s hand to my lips and kissed it. In this story, the breakthrough is from life to death. An elderly woman dies, and returns to her home as a ghost. She searches for her husband, but new owners have moved in. Her search is eventually rewarded, and the couple is reunited. Previous MARY BEHAN was formerly a professor of neuroscience at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and now writes fiction, memoir, and short stories. Her books, published by Laurence Gate Press, include Abbey Girls , a memoir she wrote with her sister, Valerie Behan, about their childhood in Ireland; A Measured Thread set in Wisconsin and Ireland, which was named a Top 100 Indie Book, a finalist in the Page Turner Awards, and an eLit medal winner; Kernels , a collection of short stories; and Finding Isobel , a companion to her first novel, was published in 2024 and awarded a gold medal for best adult fiction e-book by the Independent Publishers (IPPI), a silver medal in women’s fiction from Readers Favorite, and Outstanding Literary Fiction Winner in the Independent Author Network Book of the Year Awards. mvbehan.com Next

Third Issue ................................................................................................................................................................... "BREAKTHROUGHS" - 2025/2026 Poem Approaching Four Past Tenses Lauren Camp Read Sight Lauren Camp Read Double Life Mike White Read Stones Mike White Read boy Jamison Conforto Read Antelope Boy Jamison Conforto Read Chalk-white, Canyon-deep Nano Taggart Read On Selecting the Contents of Care Package Number Three Nano Taggart Read Trigger Alert Robert Okaji Read Relentless Robert Okaji Read Our Big Toes Barbara Huntington Read Shift Barbara Huntington Read A Whispering Beetle Nancy Takacs Read Sweet Peas Nancy Takacs Read Almost Stacy Julin Read Last Meal Stacy Julin Read Ballad of U and Me klipschutz Read Hymn for Lorca klipschutz Read It's Okay Andrea Hollander Read Living Room Andrea Hollander Read Blood Draw Karin Anderson Read Yes, Emily, Hope Jan Mordenski Read How to Make a Basket Jan Mordenski Read Crash Ruminations (excerpt) Karin Anderson Read Incunabula, Mother Tongue Max McDonough Read One Small Change Max McDonough Read facing it Shanan Ballam Read The Long Haul Shanan Ballam Read An Amicable Correspondence Scott Abbott Read I Saw Her Standing There Scott Abbott Read Cold Marble, Hot Memories Lev Raphael Read Hard Times Lev Raphael Read Bird News Cynthia Hardy Read Rude Weather Cynthia Hardy Read Ghazal with Coyotes, Gaza and Healing Herbs Pamela Uschuk Read Bluebird Abecedarian Pamela Uschuk Read Review of El Rey of Gold Teeth by Reyes Ramirez Willy Palomo Read Mama's Hands Willy Palomo Read Vocabulary Robbie Gamble Read Gamble Patrilineage Robbie Gamble Read West on Piccadilly Shauri Cherie Read huntington beach, march 2 Shauri Cherie Read The Birdwatcher Stephen Wunderli Read Angel's Diner Stephen Wunderli Read How to Turn a Hate March into a Jubilee Procession Dana Henry Martin Read Five Cows, Two Calves Found Shot Dead in Pine Valley Dana Henry Martin Read Imagined Scenes Mary Behan Read Stargazing Mary Behan Read BACK TO TOP

< Back to Breakthroughs Issue Imagined Scenes Mary Behan Ever since she read about it, riding the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok had been on Jennifer Fowler’s bucket list. She was fascinated by train travel, and no other rail journey promised such a bigger-than-life experience, chugging across that vast expanse of Asia, where a single color dominated the world map. She imagined a few days in Moscow to buy necessities for the ten-day trip, a final check of her paperwork, and then that electric moment as the train moved slowly out of the station, gaining speed through endless grey suburbs, and finally bursting free into a landscape that stretched for thousands of miles to the Sea of Japan. In her mind’s eye each scene along the way had its own vivid color, smell, and sound. Endless forests and snow-covered steppes punctuated by remote train stations; the curious faces of Russian farmers pausing to stare at the speeding behemoth; the lurching carriage with a samovar steaming quietly in the corner; the smell of sweat and damp wool and urine and garlicky sausages. Excuses came and went. At first it was money—never enough—but as her career progressed, time became the limiting resource. Her Chicago law office was small, and if she took more than two weeks of vacation, someone else would have to attend to her clients. Colleagues were always willing to pick up the slack for a wedding or an illness, but for anything else, they tended to be less generous. And so the Great Railway Bazaar scenes faded gradually as the years went by. This had been a particularly challenging winter for Jennifer. One of the attorneys in her office had slipped on the icy sidewalk early in December and broken both wrists, leaving her unable to work. Much of her caseload had fallen to Jennifer, who had little choice but to work fourteen-hour days, dragging herself home each evening through the grinding cold of a Chicago winter. By the time her colleague returned to the office in mid-February, Jennifer longed for a break from the grinding routine. That afternoon, as her client’s voice continued to drone on in the telephone receiver, she allowed her mind to drift. This was the third phone call with this man in as many days. He was a needy man, she thought; someone who liked the sound of his own voice and didn’t seem to care that every minute of her time came with a price. Absentmindedly, she scrolled through her e-mails. Pausing as one caught her eye, she double-clicked on the link that opened to a brochure for a conference in New Orleans the following month. The topic was only tangentially related to her area of expertise, but it piqued her interest. Her gaze drifted towards the window again. Yesterday’s snow was already melting, merging with the gray of the sidewalks. In the distance the L-train wound its way between buildings, looking for all the world like a model railroad. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of those two images in her brain, but by the end of the phone call she had made a decision. She would go to the conference in New Orleans—by train. * * * The tiny sleeper compartment would have been cramped with two people, but as she was travelling alone, it felt spacious. Two comfortable seats faced each other in front of a large picture window, beneath which hung a folding table. The porter who showed her to her roomette had stowed her suitcase deftly in a corner of the compartment, assuring her that he would take it out later when he prepared the cabin for the night. “My name is Joseph, Ma’am. If there’s anything you need, just let me know. You can press that buzzer or just walk towards the back of the train. You’ll find me for sure.” His broad, toothy smile left her feeling safe. Remembering those erstwhile Trans-Siberian dreams, she had brought a bottle of wine, and as soon as Joseph closed the compartment door, she opened it and poured herself a generous glass. The train lurched briefly, prompting her to grab both glass and bottle, but then it relapsed into a steady movement as it trundled out of Union Station into the Chicago suburbs. A tiny spark of excitement rippled through her. Her desk was clear for the next few days and nobody expected to hear from her. She was free. It was the absence of movement that woke her in the middle of the night. Drawing aside the curtain, harsh lights illuminated a railway yard, and for a moment she wondered whether something had happened. A derailment on the tracks ahead perhaps, or something more ominous? The app on her smartphone showed the train in Memphis, Tennessee, close to the Mississippi River. She listened for any sounds of alarm but the corridor was silent, so she went back to sleep, sliding down between crisp, white sheets and pulling the woolen blanket up to her chin. The next time she woke it was daylight and the view outside had changed dramatically. This was the hidden America—hamlets where trains no longer stopped, settlements that shouted poverty and abandonment. The train moved slowly through this blighted landscape, allowing her to imagine how her life might have been had she grown up here. A dilapidated shack, its wide porch cluttered with sagging chairs, a washing machine, and a stack of empty beer crates was a chastening reminder that not everyone had a chance to live the American Dream. Joseph helped her with her suitcase as she alighted from the train at the Union Passenger Terminal in New Orleans. She thanked him sincerely, feeling a momentary pang of apprehension at the prospect of leaving his care. She reminded herself that she wasn’t stepping off into a remote Russian city but, rather, a familiar American one. She was a successful lawyer in her mid-thirties, about to attend a conference where she would be respected, if not admired. She straightened her shoulders and walked out of the station into the mid-afternoon sunshine. The unaccustomed feeling of warm air on her skin made her smile. She decided to walk the eight blocks to the boutique hotel in the Warehouse District where she had made a reservation. Signs of post-Katrina recovery were everywhere, although little seemed to have been achieved in the three years since the hurricane. By comparison with Chicago the city felt hostile, and she walked briskly, her roller bag rattling on the uneven pavement. That evening she had an early meal at one of the more exclusive restaurants in the city. It was the sort of place that normally required a reservation, but by going early she hoped they would seat her. She dressed carefully for the occasion, and as she expected, the maître d’hôtel scrutinized her before seating her in a quiet corner of his dining room. Leaving a little over an hour later, she paused at a street corner to watch a scene playing out that could easily have been in a Hollywood movie. Two police cruisers had pulled up behind a battered-looking sedan, their lights flashing. The occupants of the car—two young black men—got out slowly and stood beside their car, waiting. Four white police officers emerged from the cruisers, their bulky gear making the process slow and awkward. One of them approached the two men; the other three stood slightly at a distance, their hands on their guns. The tension was palpable. Jennifer watched in fascination, waiting for someone to make a move—a wrong move. She didn’t notice the woman behind her and was startled when a voice spoke quietly. “Perhaps we should watch from a little farther away. It might be safer. I think we’re in the line of fire here.” Jennifer turned to see a tall, elegantly-dressed woman around her own age with vivid blue eyes and short blond hair parted to the side and slicked down, giving her a vaguely masculine appearance. She was very beautiful. “Maybe you’re right,” Jennifer responded, giving the woman a warm smile. It was true. A stray bullet could easily hit either of them or any of the bystanders who had also stopped. The woman touched her arm gently and led her across the street to a safer vantage point. For the next fifteen minutes they watched the scene play out, exchanging comments as to what might be going on and speculating as to how it might resolve. Suddenly, as if on cue, all six men got into their cars and drove away, the cruisers turning left and the sedan continuing on straight past the two women. The crowd of onlookers began to disperse, but the two women lingered and continued their conversation, which by now had progressed to the rehabilitation efforts that were being undertaken in the Warehouse District. Jennifer was about to say goodbye when the woman said, “I have an apartment just around the corner. Would you like to come up for a glass of wine? We have a lovely rooftop garden; you can see the boats on the river.” She tilted her head to one side and looked inquiringly at Jennifer, the side of her mouth turning up slightly with the hint of a smile. There was an awkward pause. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier. Veva Kiuru.” She extended her hand and Jennifer shook it, offering her own name in exchange. The name sounds vaguely Polish, Jennifer thought, yet this woman didn’t remind her of any of the Poles she knew in Chicago. Normally she would have refused an invitation like this, claiming an early morning meeting or some such excuse. But to her surprise, she found herself agreeing. Something about Veva intrigued her, and the prospect of doing something totally out of character was exciting. Besides, she reasoned, it was still relatively early in the evening and while her hotel room was charming, it offered little besides a large TV. Five minutes later they arrived at a four-story red brick building that, from its outward appearance, had once been a warehouse. “My husband bought the apartment soon after Katrina,” Veva said as she punched in a code on the panel beside a pair of heavy, wooden doors. “Nobody wanted to come downtown in those days, so it was a bargain. We live across the lake—Lake Pontchartrain—but this place is convenient when we go to concerts.” Any sense that the building had once been a factory disappeared as the doors swung open and automatically closed behind them. After the busy street noise, the silence was striking. A faint perfume of some sweet-smelling flower, the name of which escaped Jennifer, hung in the air. The spacious, dimly-lit foyer ended at a marble staircase that angled upwards into shadow. “You don’t mind if we take the stairs, do you?” Veva asked. “There’s an elevator but I prefer the exercise.” The apartment was on the top floor of the building and consisted of a spacious, high-ceilinged loft with a row of tall windows that spanned the whole length of one wall. Facing the windows was a galley kitchen, separated from the room by an island at which stood two high stools. A hallway led off the room, presumably to the bedroom and bathroom, Jennifer thought. Decorated in a minimalist style, the floors were of recycled lumber sanded to reveal the dark wood grain. An L-shaped sofa dominated the center of the room, strewn with cushions in muted colors. In the angle of the sofa stood a large glass coffee table, empty except for a pair of silver and bronze stirrups with an intricate Arabic design carved into their sides. Beside them lay a shield and sword, both equally stunning. An image of Genghis Khan flashed into Jennifer’s mind, seated astride his horse and looking fierce and magnificent. As she followed Veva towards the kitchen, she ran her fingers delicately over a slab of cream-colored wood supported by a complex arrangement of stainless-steel cables and posts that looked to be a writing desk of sorts. It felt like silk, the surface hardly registering on her fingertips. Pausing, she stared at the object on the desk, which she recognized as a Japanese suzuri, the ink stone nestled into an intricately carved dragon whose eyes were fixed upon a golden egg. Beside the suzuri lay a calligraphy brush. She looked over at Veva, who was watching her. “It’s very beautiful,” Jennifer said, gesturing towards the room. “I like beautiful things,” came the response. Jennifer watched as Veva reached upward to slide two wine glasses from the rack hanging above the island. The movement was fluid and practiced and despite her own petite frame, she felt awkward by comparison. “Your name is very unusual. Is it Polish?” Jennifer asked. “Finnish.” “What do you do…for work I mean?” “I work for the government,” came the reply, but something in Veva’s tone seemed to discourage further inquiry. “And you?” “I’m a lawyer. We do mostly health care stuff…representing hospitals and clinics. The laws around health care are changing all the time.” Veva nodded. “You drink white?” she asked, opening the refrigerator. “I have red if you prefer.” “White would be lovely.” She took out a bottle of wine, glanced at it, and uncorked it with practiced efficiency. “It’s a New Zealand wine and a good one. I promise.” Her blue eyes lingered on Jennifer for an extra few seconds. Then, with glasses and bottle in hand, she walked towards the hall. “Follow me,” she said without looking back and disappeared into a small passageway from which a spiral staircase led upward. The rooftop garden was a surprise. Each of the apartments in the building had its own private space, separated from neighbors by tall, wicker partitions. On opposite sides of Veva’s garden, a steel and glass wall allowed for an uninterrupted view of the New Orleans skyline. A trellis festooned with lush greenery covered much of the tiny space, shading a table and two chairs. Veva poured a generous measure into the glasses and offered one to Jennifer. She raised her own glass. “To safety,” she said, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly. For the next two hours they talked. Veva was a good listener, prompting the conversation with thoughtful questions, but offering little information about herself. Something about the rooftop—a sense of removal from the world—allowed Jennifer to open up in ways she never had before. Neither confessional nor therapy session, it felt more like a conversation with her inner self. She could hear the disappointment in her own voice as she talked about her divorce seven years earlier and the few men she had dated since. All the while Veva’s intense blue eyes held her attention, and for some reason she couldn’t explain, she found herself yearning to elicit that unique smile. The temperature had dropped slightly and the wine bottle was empty. Veva stood up, stretched her arms above her head, and arched her back. She walked to the rail and looked towards the river. Silhouetted against the darkening skyline, Jennifer thought she looked magnificent, like a character out of an Avengers movie—feline, predatory, powerful. “Come join me,” Veva said, turning around to look at Jennifer. Although it was said softly, it was a command not a request. Standing side by side at the railing they stared into the distance, neither speaking. Then Veva turned towards her and gently stroked her face. The caress carried a question and at the same time an expectation. Jennifer held her breath, not certain whether she wanted the scene to progress. But her body had already decided. A warm ache made its way through her, bringing a flush to her face. Then Veva kissed her. Her tongue explored Jennifer’s mouth, withdrawing to linger over her lips, then plunging greedily again and again. Jennifer could taste the wine on Veva’s breath. She closed her eyes, and in her mind saw the scene unfolding in slow motion, like a drop of water creating gently expanding waves. She gasped as every cell in her body ached for this sublime feeling to go on forever. Veva’s mouth was still on hers, her arm around her neck, holding her in a tight embrace. Then she pulled away, took Jennifer’s hand in hers, and led her towards the stairs. At the bottom of the spiral staircase, Veva turned to her. She was smiling. “Let me blindfold you.” Her eyes were bright, her mouth slightly open as if expecting Jennifer to refuse. But there was no protest. She slid the silk scarf from around her neck and held it out in her two hands, like an offering. Jennifer took a deep breath and accepted, raising the scarf towards her face. Veva helped her tie the knot and whispered in her ear, “Trust me.” Jennifer could feel the warm breath followed by the tip of a tongue deftly probing her ear. A thrill of pleasure erupted in her core. There was a gentle pressure on her back pushing her forward, and instinctively she held her hands out in front of her. A finger caressed her outstretched palm, threading its way to her wrist and closing around it like a manacle. She felt a slight pull and allowed herself to be drawn into the bedroom. Like Alice falling down a rabbit hole she had no sense of what might happen next, but she was willing to give herself up entirely to whatever might unfold. * * * She knew Veva was gone as soon as she woke the following morning. It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it was as if someone had sucked all the life out of the apartment. For a few minutes Jennifer lay there thinking about the previous evening. Her hand went to her crotch, which was still wet and slightly bruised. She rolled over on her belly, inhaling Veva’s scent from the smooth sheet. Every fiber of her body craved the exquisite pleasure she had experienced. This is what jonesing for drugs must be like, she thought—a gnawing pain that begged to be satisfied. But there would be no antidote to ease her back into her previous life. She pushed the thought aside and got out of bed. In the living room, propped up against a tall glass of water, was a card-sized piece of cream-colored paper. The letter ‘V’ had been inscribed on it with a perfect brush stroke of black ink. She turned the card over but it was blank. Jennifer made a final tour of the apartment, trying to sear every detail of the space into her mind. She reached out to touch the suzuri, tracing the dragon from tail to head, her fingers lingering on the golden egg. The calligraphy brush lay beside it, still slightly damp. She took the card and slid it carefully into her purse. Then, with a feeling of immense loss, she left, closing the door decisively behind her. The next day was filled with people and presentations, welcome distractions that served to keep a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts at bay. Up to now, all of her sexual encounters had been heterosexual, and as Jennifer searched through scenes from her past, nowhere had she ever felt attracted to a woman. The evening with Veva had been more pleasurable than anything she had ever experienced. Although sex with her husband was satisfying, it had been unimaginative. None of the men she had slept with since her divorce had made her feel the way she had with Veva, and she wondered if it would change her life in any way. But this was something she didn’t want to dwell on, at least not yet. On the second evening of the conference, Jennifer arranged to have dinner with a friend from her law school days who was also attending the meeting. They hadn’t seen each other since before her divorce and spent an enjoyable couple of hours catching up. After dinner, he offered to walk her back to her hotel and she agreed, steering him on a circuitous route through the Warehouse District with the excuse of showing him the architecture. As they walked past Veva’s apartment building, Jennifer stole a glance upward, but the windows were unlit. On the final evening there was a cocktail party for the two hundred attendees in the ballroom of the conference hotel. Waiters carrying trays of canapés and glasses of wine wove their way expertly among the crowd. Jennifer stood at a tall bar table with a group of colleagues, not quite engaged with their conversation. Looking around the room at some of the now-familiar faces, her heart missed a beat. Staring at her from across the ballroom was Veva, a tiny smile lurking in the corner of her mouth. Their eyes locked for several seconds until the crowd closed in and Jennifer lost sight of her. She abruptly excused herself and rushed to the spot where she had last seen Veva, but she had disappeared. The following morning Jennifer took an early flight back to Chicago and by mid-afternoon was seated at her desk. Looking out her office window later that afternoon as the light was beginning to fade, she watched as the L-train threaded its way through the commercial buildings. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to remember, and as the scenes unfurled like flowers, a world of possibilities began to emerge. "Imagined Scenes" was previously published as "Scenes in a Movie" in my collection of short stories, Kernels . In this story, the breakthrough is an awakening as a young lawyer from Chicago has her first non-binary sexual experience with a woman she meets in New Orleans. Previous MARY BEHAN was formerly a professor of neuroscience at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and now writes fiction, memoir, and short stories. Her books, published by Laurence Gate Press, include Abbey Girls , a memoir she wrote with her sister, Valerie Behan, about their childhood in Ireland; A Measured Thread set in Wisconsin and Ireland, which was named a Top 100 Indie Book, a finalist in the Page Turner Awards, and an eLit medal winner; Kernels , a collection of short stories; and Finding Isobel , a companion to her first novel, was published in 2024 and awarded a gold medal for best adult fiction e-book by the Independent Publishers (IPPI), a silver medal in women’s fiction from Readers Favorite, and Outstanding Literary Fiction Winner in the Independent Author Network Book of the Year Awards. mvbehan.com Next

< Back to Breakthroughs Issue Five Cows, Two Calves Found Shot Dead in Pine Valley Dana Henry Martin The cows dead in the vast pastureland were shot as they grazed. They look like chunks of basalt until the mind adjusts to what it sees. Here, something with hooves, ears, a tail. There, a barreled body on its side, a number burned in its hip beside a brand like a symbol from an old scroll. They died nameless but not without identity: cows one through five, and two nursing calves. All night, they laid next to the powdered road, among the sands and sagebrush, a stone’s throw from pinyons, holes blown from ribs into lungs, from backs into intestines, a blush oval-shaped dish of skin around each entry. The news shows two adults but neither calf. That would be too much even for those bred in this rough country, where generations have nursed on heaving, iron-laden lands. It’s one thing for God to take what rightfully belongs to him through drought, hunger, heat. It’s another when a man stands at the edge of a road that’s not even his, points the tips of his boots at each animal he aims to shoot and kills a whole herd, even the babies. Easy targets if you’re willing to trespass, to get dirt on the hems of your jeans, and flee before you’re seen. The shooter moved under a dark cape below Taurus the bull squinting from the stars, seven girls dancing forever in his shoulder, The Pleiades carried to the heavens to escape Orion the hunter who vowed to kill every brute in the world. Then, morning: the night sky’s inverse. Seven dead cows a black constellation against bright earth, dark angels whose story’s written in the dirt. — “Five Cows, Two Calves Found Shot Dead in Pine Valley” is based on a story by the same title in St. George News , the online newspaper for Southwest Utah. The breakthrough for this poem was being able to write it at all. I read the news story in 2022, but couldn't write the poem until 2025, despite wanting to. How do we talk about such things? How do we live in a place we love where such things happen? I wanted the cows and calves to have a different ending, a different story. So I gave them one that's part funeral, part myth. That was my way into the poem. Previous DANA HENRY MARTIN is a poet, medical writer, and health- and mental-health advocate whose chapbooks include Love and Cruelty (Meat for Tea, forthcoming), No Sea Here (Moon in the Rye Press, forthcoming), Toward What Is Awful (YesYes Books, 2012), In the Space Where I Was (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2012), and The Spare Room (Blood Pudding Press, 2009). Martin's work has appeared in The Adroit Journal , Barrow Street , Cider Press Review , FRiGG , Laurel Review , Mad in America , Meat for Tea , Muzzle , New Letters , Rogue Agent , Sheila-Na-Gig , SWWIM , Trampoline , and other literary journals. She weaves, birds, and hangs out with the cows who live next to the cemetery in Toquerville, Utah. danahenrymartin.com Next

Writing to Delight You Let's go!

Mastering the Hunt In Britain, a "red woven hood" was the distinguishing mark of a prophetess or priestess. The story's original victim would not have been the red-clad Virgin but the hunter, as Lord of the Hunt. —The Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets by Lisa Chavez We smell him before we sight him—human rank, scent threaded with death. The grandmother waits in the cave’s mouth on her haunches, scratching at fleas. We gather in the shadows, watch him approach. He is a northerner, pale mane tangled with leaves, hair on his face darker and ragged. He’s dressed in fur—on his head a cap fashioned of a wolf’s face, wizened by death. Empty eyes above his own. Some of us turn away from that gaze He is the master of the hunt, separated from his pack. It’s dusk, early autumn. We streak forward, register his surprise. From the cave, the grandmother howls with laughter. He cocks his head. Looks at us. What does he see? Our beauty. Our flowing hair and red caps. The tilt of our eyes, golden and curious. He relaxes. One of us nuzzles his throat; another lowers herself before him with beguiling glance. He feels our hands, our tongues. When he sees our teeth he falters, but we have already relieved him of his clothes, his spear. When the grandmother joins us, we finish what we’ve begun. Brindled in blood, we lick ourselves clean, our bellies distended as if with stone. Then we rise, shake off these pale skins and lope away beneath the trees, the sky pelt dark, and the moon watching like a wolf’s amber eye. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue Published in Red Rock Review and Hick Poetics (Lost Roads Press, 2015). I have long been interested in fairy tales, especially ones that involve animals and transformation. This published poem was part of a series I was writing about animals and transformation. I always rooted for the animals as a child, and was particularly disturbed by the wolf’s death in “Little Red Riding Hood.” I suppose this poem is my way of finding justice for the wolves. .................................................................................................................................................................................... LISA CHAVEZ is a poet and memoirist from Alaska now living in the mountains of New Mexico with a pack of Japanese dogs. She teaches in the MFA program at the University of New Mexico and is the author of In An Angry Season (University of Arizona Press, 2001) and Destruction Bay (West End Press, 1998). Next - The Fox's Nonce Sonnet by Lisa Chavez Next

Acrostic Lifeboat Take words with you and return to God. Hosea 14:3 by Maureen Clark The bug zapper flashes Morse code, A spark for each dot and dash - saying - pay attention. Words are being Kindled from these fried insects. The rise and fall of empires depend on Each death. Our elliptical orbit brings another year of language. Why would you take words to return to God? Why not bundles of wheat? Oil in clay jars? Fresh baked bread. Why not take salt? Red wine, purple cloth, things more like worship? Depending on the alphabet is risky with its creation of ambiguity Scratched onto vellum, paint on papyrus, so much lost in translation. Poems Written on napkins and grocery receipts. I can’t deny that I’m compelled, enticed even, To thrust my fingers into a bowl of letters and return Holding on for dear life, writing ‘lifeboat’ just in time, Yielding to the possible safety of the right word. Only language can tell our stories. Some letters generate echoes of the Utterly haunting past, mistakes, the resonance of the earth. Any word can be a talisman. I’ve always wanted to Nail down how civilization evolved into writing. I want to write the word Dromedary because the cadence mirrors the way it moves. Ridiculous of course, but I’d ride that one-hump camel to the oasis any day. Even the unvoiced desire can eventually be put into words, and spells To cure warts, whip up a tempest, make a magic potion. Unless words carry different weights like numbers and can be Rounded up or down. Someone show me the runes! Never mind, I’ve wandered off again, Too full of questions that can’t be answered Overwhelmed with finding a word to rhyme with orange, Grappling with the alphabet, the number of syllables in a perfect line, One too many or needing one less. It’s futile. Please take my words God, Do whatever it takes to return to me. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue First published in Utah Lake Stories: Reflections on a Living Landmark (Torrey House Press, 2022). I like to try different poetic forms. I had never tried the acrostic in a serious endeavor, but I found it to the be right fit for this poem and the idea of creating words as a means of returning to God. I also liked how it allowed me to turn the phrasing around so that God needed to return to me. .................................................................................................................................................................................... MAUREEN CLARK retired from the University of Utah where she taught writing for 20 years. She was the director of the University Writing Center from 2010-2014, and president of Writers@Work from 1999-2001. Her poems have appeared in Colorado Review , Alaska Review , The Southeast Review , and Gettysburg Review among others. Her first book is This Insatiable August (Signature Books, 2024). Next - The Afternoon on the Sava by Scott Abbott Next

The Afternoon on the Sava by Scott Abbott 9 April 2013 Every country has its rivers. That afternoon it was the Sava, not far from where it flows into the Danube under the once-stern gaze of Belgrade’s Kalemegdan fortress, far from the lesser rivers of my own American West. A houseboat was the gathering place, a rustic restaurant with no sign to announce its presence. The invitation had come in response to questions about a translation. Peter Handke had replied, in English: “On April 8th I shall be in Belgrade/Serbia. Žarko will come too, also Zlatko. And you??” On the back flap of the envelope, below F-92370 Chaville, was an Arabic word I could not decipher. A friend later told me it was “Chaville.” Packed into a little Peugeot, a big Jeep Cherokee, and a good-sized taxi, the column of friends, fellow travelers, and distant neighbors wound off the backbone of the white city. At the end of a streetcar line in New Belgrade, the Jeep bumped up over the curb and ascended a steep dirt path to the top of a dike. The Peugeot eased tentatively over the curb and up onto the dike. The taxi followed a more circuitous route but found the top of the dike as well. The cars parked and the passengers disembarked. Peter Handke tugged a dark-brown stocking cap over his grey hair. He wore a knee-length black coat, black pants that twice had been lengthened by hand, and high-top black shoes. Dark-haired Sophie Semin wore a long black coat with sleeves colorfully embroidered by her husband. Ljiljane Kapor was youthful in brown pants and a matching jacket. Her attentive assistant Marija had neon-red hair. Maja Kusturica warded off the cold with an elegant white coat and bright blue scarf. Thin-lipped poet Matija Bećković wore a brown coat and a Sherlock Holmes hat. Theater director Mladen Materić’s blue jeans were baggy at the ass. Short-haired novelist and translator Žarko Radaković had no hat but was snug in a brown wool coat. A dark-haired Belgrade journalist and her younger protégé wore dresses under warm coats. And I, a university professor who wanted, someday, to call myself a writer, was comforted by a black coat against which my long grey hair looked nearly white. The first week of April still saw the river at its spring-flood stage, making access from the shore difficult. Wooden steps led down the grassy dike to a long plank bridge that carried the party out between still leafless trees whose trunks seemed surprised to be rising out of the floodwater; at the bridge’s end ten steep steps led down into the shallow water; two weathered planks reached from the last step above water to a forklift pallet; three planks continued the makeshift bridge to a gravel bank from which two steps led up onto a platform supported by four red 55-gallon drums; from that secure perch, thick planks reached onto a long, floating bridge that ended at the door of a low-roofed restaurant for boaters on the Sava River—and on this day, for the eleven guests who had approached over the labyrinthine path. We shed our coats and scarves and hats in a dining room heated by a small wood fire in a cast-iron stove. Windows looked out over the Sava on one side and to the flooded trees on the other. We took seats at a table that stretched the width of the room along two long windows. On the previous night in the Hotel Moskva, so late in the night that the next day had already begun, so late that who knows how many bottles of Riesling, including a special bottle of Morava offered by the attentive hotel manager, had been emptied by the three who remained after the Serbian poet had said good-night and Sophie had gone to bed—on that night before the afternoon on the Sava, Žarko entertained us with stories about a legendary pair of sly and slow-witted characters. Mujo and Haso went to a soccer game. They agreed that whenever either team scored they would drink a pint of beer. The game ended in a 0-0 tie. Let’s go to a basketball game, suggested Haso. Suljo painted a picture with two naked people and took it to a gallery. It is called Mujo in Sarajevo, he told the gallery owner. “Who are the people?” the owner asked. “The woman is Fatima, Mujo’s wife, and the man is Haso.” “And where is Mujo?” “Mujo is in Sarajevo.” Peter claimed he was not a good teller of jokes but that proved to be only partially true. He said, for instance, that he was thinking about repainting Caspar David Friedrich’s Two Men Contemplating the Moon . He would paint only one man, he said, a drunk who would stand there contemplating two moons. I was halfway through a long joke before I remembered it required an English-language pun and the joke limped to its conclusion. I mentioned my brother who had died of AIDS two decades earlier and described the book of “fraternal meditations” I was writing: Immortal for Quite Some Time . Peter looked at me curiously: “Du bist mir ein Rätzel.” “I am a puzzle to myself,” I replied. The meal on the houseboat began with a toast: slivovitz in small glasses raised to the Austrian author whom the Kapor Foundation and the Serbian president would honor the next day. Plates of tomatoes, spring onions, radishes, and kajmak cheese were the first course, served with mineral water and carafes of red and white wine. Platters of breaded Sava fish followed, thick fish steaks with roasted potatoes and Serbian salad. My mind slipped to the afternoon at Peter’s house in Chaville. Had it been ten years? Fifteen? Peter sautéed mushrooms and served them with dark bread and Portuguese white wine. H e gave me the first pages of the American translation of Mein Jahr in der Niemandsbucht and asked for an evaluation. I read a few pages aloud and then pointed out an early sentence that, in the original, ended with an der Stelle des zwischendurch mich weiterwürgenden ‘Ende’ das Ding Verwandlung . The translation rendered this as the ‘end’ that still gagged me now and then was more and more firmly replaced by this metamorphosis thing. With the throwaway silliness of this metamorphosis thing , I told Peter, das Ding Verwandlung has lost its philosophical tension. And the carefully wrought, eleven-word original phrase has been bloated to nineteen flaccid words. Your sentences have been flattened; the nuance is gone. It had struck me then and now again that this is what I most feared about my own life, that it was commonplace, lackluster, banal, flaccid. At the turn of the century, at the beginning of the new millennium, still married, still practicing the Mormon religion I had been raised in, I woke from a nightmare in which my little car was surrounded by a neverending cluster of identical cars that descended from the sky in ranks of ten to land in perfect synchrony and drive obediently along an endless highway just wide enough for ten little cars. I fled the marriage, left the Mormons, and sought antidotes to the unsettling dream in Handke’s supple and self-questioning sentences, found succor in the author’s preface to A Journey to the Rivers where he asserted that he had written about his journey through Serbia exactly as I have always written my books, my literature: a slow, inquiring narration; every paragraph dealing with and narrating a problem, of representation, of form, of grammar—of aesthetic veracity . I would live with aesthetic veracity, I thought. My life would be a slow and dialectical unfolding. And I would be skeptical of my attempts at aesthetic veracity and dialectical unfolding. That day in Chaville, Peter showed me a letter from American publisher Roger Straus to Siegfried Unseld, Handke’s German publisher: We have a problem, and his name is Peter Handke. The books weren’t selling as they once had. How was it possible, I asked myself, that an editor with Straus’ reputation had no idea what the translations were doing to Peter’s work? I removed the bones from a second fish steak and reflected on how challenging I found each of Peter’s new books. It helped to read with a pen in hand. Der Grosse Fall (The Great Fall) , for instance. I had read it slowly, fascinated by the dual metaphor of standing and falling announced by the title, attentive to the slow, inquiring development of the metaphor. I wondered if my method was compensatory gratification for the sterile pedant I feared I had become. No, I thought. I was finding my way out of dualistic dead ends through the simultaneously critical and affirmative ideas Peter so often conjoined with “and.” I had once written about this productive interplay in Peter’s novel Die Wiederholung (Repetition) , describing the method as postmetaphysical metaphysics. Peter disdained abstractions of that sort. The afternoon hours passed without seeming to pass. The courses of food and pitchers of wine were ever-changing constants as the houseboat lifted and fell with the river’s insistent current. I was experiencing, I thought, a kind of standing now, a nunc stans in which memory was as present as the experience itself. Peter moved to an adjoining table to speak with the Serbian journalists. Žarko joined them as translator, a role he had played dozens of times over the years while traveling with Peter in what had been Yugoslavia. I realized that the wine had gone to my head like the scent of elderberries at the Hallesches Tor in ETA Hoffmann’s The Golden Pot. Peter looked tired. The journalists asked their questions. Žarko translated them. Peter responded. Žarko translated the responses. Žarko looked tired as well. “Or” was my original conjunction. I spent two years in Germany as a Mormon missionary. I knew the truth and knew that other people needed it and I bore witness that if they would pray as I had, God would reveal the truth to them as well. My German improved and I began to read—Buddenbrooks, Mutter Courage, Der Steppenwolf . Nietzsche’s wild-eyed Zarathustra taught me that we create our truths instead of finding them. Lessing’s wise Nathan offered a parable in which the magic ring was mercifully lost. I too would essay a life on my own terms, I thought, on my own terms and yet in the context of the American, Mormon Volk I had left and that was still with me even as the minutes and hours of the afternoon on the Sava were stretched and enhanced by wine and tiredness. I admired the lively face of the man Žarko described as one of Serbia’s greatest living poets and marveled at Mladen’s heavy brows and enjoyed the animated interaction between Maja and Sophie as they smoked and talked and smoked. I watched red-haired Marija move around the room to take photos of the gathering. The German writer Peter Schneider attacked my translation of A Journey to the Rivers for presenting Peter’s work in a less controversial light than it deserved. I replied that Schneider either couldn’t read or refused to read. Criticize what is there, yes; but criticize what you put there with your simplistic and inflexible mind and you become the aggressive and stupid critic I was afraid Peter took me for when he called me Dr. Scott. I am a Germanist, a good one. I am also a writer, co-author with Žarko of two books described in Belgrade as a “two-seater without steering.” Couldn’t a person be both a writer and a critic? Was it the double role that made me a puzzle to Peter? When had I begun to write my non-critical work? Why had I done that? It was Žarko’s invitation, I thought. Žarko had asked me to contribute to a Belgrade journal and then to his anthology on childhood and then to the Flugasche issue on the painter Julije Knifer, and then the collaboration on the book Repetitions and later on Vampires & A Reasonable Dictionary . It was Peter’s influence as well. His books engaged me, called to me even, made me want to understand, to pay attention, to weigh possibilities—and beyond the understanding to write, to write about myself. If I ever wrote a book about Peter Handke, I told myself as the houseboat rose and fell gently in the wake of a passing boat, I would write about the dialectical texts and certainly not about this afternoon on the Sava. I wanted to write a bout Žarko’s books as well. I would learn Serbian, I thought, Serbo-Croatian, so I could read my friend’s Tübingen, Emigracia, Knifer, Era, Strah od Emigracije, Pogled, Kafana , and so on. I had made that vow before. I would make it again. The river flowed past, heaving and falling like a mother’s breasts. Marija was brilliant and Handke looked tired and Sophie and Maja shared more cigarettes and Mladen gestured broadly and Matija Bećković said “hello” to me and in English which Mladen translated into Serbian I told the smiling poet that Žarko had said he was the best of all living Serbian poets. The poet winked and said Žarko always told the truth. I said I had known Žarko to lie on occasion. “Not in this case,” the poet replied. I was exhausted; time folded in on itself as did the food and the wine and Mladen’s huge head and Žarko’s solicitous translations and Sophie wincing with her back pain and another pitcher of wine and overlapping conversations translated back and forth from Serbian and English and French and German and even Spanish and the poet’s funny stories about another Serbian poet and soft cheese and onions and more wine. Peter asked the young journalist if she had a boyfriend and she said “yes,” and he asked for his name and she said “Vladimir” and he said “Vladimir?” “Vladimir!” and fish soup came and I asked Marija with her beautiful sharp nose and bright red hair about the man in blue eating alone at a separate table and she said he had a factory that made medals like the one the President of Serbia would give to Peter the next day and, she added with a smile, “he gives away a lot of medals!” I said, “he must be a very good President then” and she laughed and said “oh yes he’s the best there is,” and I suggested that perhaps the President would give Žarko and meedals too and she said it w ould surely happen but that it would probably require that we stay in the country just a few more days and I said we were leaving on Thursday and would that be long enough? and she thought perhaps it might require the weekend as well and the fish soup was followed by thick fish steaks accompanied by potato salad and the Sava flowed as slowly and powerfully as time while swallows dipped and rose outside the window and a photo of Angela Merkel handing a scholarship notice to the son of the houseboat owner hung on one wall and Peter joined the two journalists at another table for an interview Žarko translated and I stared at a photo of a man holding a huge fish in his arms and Marija asked the houseboat owner who said it was a Sava River fish like the one that lay in steaks in front of us and, raising a glass of wine to my lips, I realized that the cold spring meant that there were no orgiastic frogs croaking the way they had alongside the barge on the Danube that night fifteen years earlier when Žarko and I sat with the filmmaker Edgar Pera and drank Jelen Pivo and pissed through a hole in the restroom floor into the Danube and I thought of the book I had read by David Albahari, the one called Leeches , and about the nationalist antagonisms and conspiracy theories sucking nourishment out of the postwar Yugoslav state and we ate nicely toasted cream puffs and deliciously oily baklava and Maja told rapid stories in French while she and Sophie and Ljiljana shared stiletto-thin cigarettes from a pack that was giving out and I wondered why so many “j”s are required for the name Ljiljana and the Sava flowed unceasingly and I, politely, at least I was trying to be polite, asked Maja Kusturica what she did professionally and she asked me, in English, to repeat the question and when I did she raised her shapely eyebrows and expelled cigarette smoke through her nose and looked me in the eyes and said, “I suffer.” I wanted to laugh but smiled instead and she smiled back and time flowed on like the Sava River. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue “The Afternoon on the Sava” is from the book We (On Friendship) , co-authored with Žarko Radaković and published in 2022 by Laguna Press in Serbian and Elik Press in English. We have been friends for three decades, with German as our common language and with Austrian author Peter Handke as our friend and inspiration. .................................................................................................................................................................................... SCOTT ABBOTT completed a doctorate in German Studies at Princeton University and is a professor of Integrated Studies, Philosophy, and Humanities at Utah Valley University. His most recent book is a collection of essays, Dwelling in the Promised Land as a Stranger. (Common Consent Press, 2022). He has translated works by Nobel Prize Awardee Peter Handke and botanist Gregor Mendel. scottabbottauthor.com Next - The Gospel of Overconsumption by Scott Abbott Next

Walking the Bear by Star Coulbrooke I walk on water, take the river from its high Uintas down Utah’s cascades, wander Wyoming’s meanders, Montpelier’s meadows, to Soda’s hair-pin curve where thirty-thousand years ago lava turned the Bear away from Blackfoot’s Snake and sent it down to Grace. Doubling back from Gem Valley to Cache, I walk the river’s cobbled bed where tributaries surge, rowdy Cub, Little Bear, Beaver-headed Logan, six-tined fork of Blacksmith. Down the length of floodplains I pass, through wetlands of cattails and bulrushes, to bottomlands leveled and drained, where the river silts in, slows down, its honeyed pace tamed for grain. On the river’s gliding current I travel miles each step, a dreamlike passage through cedar and cottonwood, hawthorn and chokecherry, lifting like a heron over dams and sluggish lakes that halt the river’s breath. I walk the Bear all summer as it builds strength again, widens into marshes, joins in lush bird-heavy congress with the great peculiar Salt, a lake that would surely die if not for this river, this path, this milk and honey. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue Published in Walking the Bear (Outlaw Artists Press, 2011) and in Deseret Magazine , July/August 2024 (Vol. 4 No. 36). My grandfather homesteaded a piece of land along the Bear River in southern Idaho in 1890. I grew up in the family farmhouse near the river. This poem came to me as I worked to save the Bear River from a proposed dam on the Oneida Narrows. I had gone to our family park on the river bottoms and as I sat looking at the water, I felt myself lift off and glide along it. The images flowed easily, gracefully, as if I were living in them as I wrote. I think I had developed such empathy for the river that the poem came gliding out of the air like that heron it mentions. I went back to the books to make sure the history was correct; otherwise, the poem needed only a few revisions. I believe it is an important poem, especially as climate change and development imperil the Bear River and the Great Salt Lake. .................................................................................................................................................................................... STAR COULBROOKE was the inaugural poet laureate of Logan City, Utah, and co-founder of the Helicon West Reading Series. Her most recent poetry collections are Thin Spines of Memory , Both Sides from the Middle and City of Poetry from Helicon West Press. Next - The Glazier by Danielle Beazer Dubrasky Next

The Other Man is Always French by Richard Peabody The other woman can be a blonde or a redhead but the other man is always French. He dresses better than I ever will. He can picnic and stroll with a wineglass in one upraised hand. Munch pâté, drink espresso, and tempt with ashy kisses. He hangs out at Dupont Circle because the trees remind him of Paris. Did I mention sex? Face it— he’s had centuries of practice. I’m an American. What do I know? He drives a fast car, and can brood like nobody’s business, while I sit home watching ESPN. He’s tall and chats about art— I don’t even want to discuss that accent. He’s Mr. Attitude. My fantasy is to call the State Department and have him deported. Only he’ll probably convince you to marry him for a green card. No way I’m going to win— the other man is always more aggressive, always more attentive. The other man is just too French for words. From now on I’m going out with statuesque German women so next time we run into each other they can kick his butt for me. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue This poem is my semi-recovery after a relationship ended owing to a classic French louche. At readings it gets a lot of laughs. But I was flabbergasted by how many people have confessed that they’ve been in that situation. My students assumed I’d written the poem after seeing Addicted to Love . Nope. Though after watching it, I get why they thought so. .................................................................................................................................................................................... RICHARD PEABODY lives in Arlington, Virginia. His most recent volume of poetry is Guinness on the Quay (Salmon Poetry, 2019). gargoylepaycock.wordpress.com Next - The Barking Dogs of Taos by Richard Peabody Next

Peach by Jennifer Tonge Come here's a peach he said and held it out just far enough to reach beyond his lap and off- ered me a room the one room left he said in all of Thessaloniki that night packed with traders The peach was lush I hadn't slept for days it was like velvet lips a lamp he smiled patted the bed for me I knew it was in fact the only room the only bed The peach trembled and he said Come nodding to make me agree I wanted the peach and the bed he said to take it see how nice it was and I thought how I could take it ginger- ly my finger- tips only touch- ing only it Not in or out I stayed in the doorway watching a fly He stroked the peach and asked where I was from I said the States he smiled and asked how long I'd stay The fly had found the peach I said I'd leave for Turkey in the morning I wanted so much to sleep and on a bed I thought of all the ways to say that word and that they must have gradient meanings He asked me did I want the peach and I said sure and took it from his hand He asked then if I'd take the room It costs too much I said and turned to go He said to stay a while and we could talk The sun was going down I said no thanks I'd head out on the late train but could I still have the peach and what else could he say to that but yes Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue Originally published in Poetry . It’s a bit embarrassing for my favorite of my own poems to be one from so long ago, but there it is. “Peach” sprang like Athena from my head and still has so much energy for me; it doesn’t rely in any way on my memory of the event that transpired it—no, that’s not a typo, I just made up a verb—but is its own event. .................................................................................................................................................................................... JENNIFER TONGE Received an MFA from the University of Utah. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Quarterly West , Poetry , Ploughshares , New England Review , and Bellingham Review . The recipient of fellowships from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, the MacDowell Colony, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the Ucross Foundation, and the Djerassi Resident Artists Program, Tonge has taught creative writing at the universities of Utah, Wisconsin, and Texas as well as at Butler University. She served as poetry editor of Quarterly West , as president of Writers@Work, on the board of City Art, and as associate editor at Dawn Marano and Associates. She lives and tends cats in Salt Lake City. Next - Your Last Day in Madison by Jennifer Tonge Next

Sunday Morning Early by David Romtvedt My daughter and I paddle red kayaks across the lake. Pulling hard, we slip easily through the water. Far from either shore, it hits me that my daughter is a young woman and suddenly everything is a metaphor for how short a time we are granted: the red boats on the blue-black water, the russet and gold of late summer’s grasses, the empty sky. We stop and listen to the stillness. I say, “It’s Sunday, and here we are in the church of the out of doors,” then wish I’d kept quiet. That’s the trick in life— learning to leave well enough alone. Our boats drift to where the chirring of grasshoppers reaches us from the rocky hills. A clap of thunder. I want to say something truer than I love you. I want my daughter to know that, through her, I live a life that was closed to me. I paddle up, lean out, and touch her hand. I start to speak then stop. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue “Sunday Morning Early” was published in The Sun magazine and in Dilemmas of the Angels (LSU Press, 2017), and was included in the Worthington, Ohio Public Library’s Garden Poetry Path public art project. I recently heard a prominent performance artist say that no great art has ever been produced from happiness. This statement made me feel deeply unhappy. I’ve spent many years working to write poems that will carry social meaning, offer pleasure, lead us to think more deeply, and explore those parts of our lives that give satisfaction, that is, happiness. I believe that great art can arise from happiness. As to whether or not the poem I’ve sent is great art I can’t say, but it is the result of happiness. .................................................................................................................................................................................... DAVID ROMTVEDT'S latest book of poetry is No Way: An American Tao Te Ching (LSU Press, 2021). He was born in Portland, Oregon and raised in southern Arizona. He graduated from Reed College, with a BA in American Studies and an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and was a graduate fellow in Folklore and Ethnomusicology at the University of Texas at Austin. After serving in the Peace Corps in Zaïre (currently Congo) and Rwanda and on a sister city construction project in Jalapa, Nicaragua, he worked as the folk arts program manager for the Centrum Foundation. He has worked as a carpenter, tree planter, truck driver, bookstore clerk, assembly line operative, letter carrier, blueberry picker, ranch hand, and college professor. A recipient of two NEA fellowships, The Pushcart Prize , and the Wyoming Governor's Arts Award, Romtvedt served as the poet laureate of the state of Wyoming from 2003 to 2011. davidromtvedt.com Next - Peach by Jennifer Tonge Next