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Updated: Oct 30

Duality, Projected

After Angela Ball


Your history begins when your father,

freshly dropped out of community college,


watches you—then two—hold a cat.

You drop it, surely unintentional,


in the driveway of your grandfather’s

gas station (which is named after you).


It is this moment, feline screeching

in the background, that your father


decides you are a serial killer.

At age five, you cry at your gran’s


funeral, an act, which in your pre-queer awakening,

is deemed by your father unmasculine.


In middle school, it was pills on which you choked,

that made you fall asleep in class,


that were supposed to fix you.

In high school, it was absence—


a bright Texas-size void through which

you wandered, fatherless, unhoused.


You learn your father’s history begins when he lines

up his sisters and touches them like barbie


dolls unagented in his presence.

And a therapist asks if this trespass


is what your father, in his haunting guilt, projects

onto you, falsely believing your face a mirror to his own.


And when the war didn’t take you,

Neither did he, instead shifting further,


rejecting what he thinks there might be of himself in you.


 

Clayton Bradshaw-Mittal (they/them) is a queer, previously unhoused veteran. Winner of the Plaza Short Story Prize, their creative work can be found in Story, Fairy Tale Review, F(r)iction, South Carolina Review and elsewhere. Other work appears in The Rumpus, Barrelhouse, and additional journals. They teach creative writing at Gannon University and are the Managing Editor of New Ohio Review.




Updated: Oct 30

Oh Canada


This is what happens when clumsily knotted aspirations

come undone You camp illegally in the rest area

of the Bad River reservation In the middle of the night

almost apologetic tribal cops For your own good

order you to leave You load your bicycle and pedal

in the pensive moonlight musing

how romantic this nameless Wisconsin country road

with its full moon would be if only she were here

But she is somewhere in Greece squeezing the sun

a world away from the quiet reflecting eyes

that stalk these nocturnal woods suspiciously spying

a lone bicyclist with a dying flashlight

You cross over the border of the reservation of last resort

and burrow into your sleeping bag at a fire lane

much nearer to train tracks then you know

In your sleep of snarled traffic and red lights

your dream of America implodes with Vietnam

a lost draft deferment with tin soldiers and Nixon coming

with smoke and ashes cities burning and

with once daring to have a dream

—until tremors rumble ten yards from your head

A train hauling pulpwood lumbers and squeals

over loose train track ties thumped by wheel wobbling bogies

as if they were the pedals of a church organ stomped

by a heavy footed organist And with America lost

in the dark and your love for it convulsing

with the wail of a train horn this jilting wasteland

shakes empty and aching as you straddle your bicycle

Is this the road north It might as well be raining

 

Les Bares lives in Richmond, Virginia. He was the winner of the 2023 Meridian Journal Short Prose Prize. He also won the 2018 Princemere Poetry Prize. His work has or will appear in New York Quarterly, The Madison Review, The Midwest Review, Cream City Review, Southword (Ireland,) Stand (England,) and other journals.





Updated: Oct 30

Reading


A line of sudden text, the fox

startles out from under the fence

and crosses the field, her tracks

fast-filling with snow.

A fox is never a full sentence.

I grasp after her for meaning

like dreams that disintegrate.

If I knew she was coming,

would I see her better

sidelong, tell her better slant?


Iris brought messages from the gods

over bright-colored bridges,

the Greek word for rainbow,

for the petalled flowers our eyes

use to read the world, yet what

can be said for our brokenness,

the numbed drum of so many

flaccid hearts?


Even with a good seat in the zone

of totality, I could see through my

glasses only darkly as the moon

threw everything it had over the sun

and still couldn’t contain its powerful

explosion beyond all margins. Such

a fiery display, it caught us up short,

stopped the birds from singing,

stunned us into chilled silence.


I think of you, Mr. Tanaka, looking up

from your garden in Nagasaki

that morning. For a split second,

did you think the sun was falling

as your flowers scorched and

the heat wave melted your skin?

How could you know that splitting

atoms was beyond our reach, there

would be no going back, that we’d

forever live dumb and partial lives?

 

Linda Aldrich has written three collections of poetry, the most recent is entitled Ballast (2021). Linda was the Portland Poet Laureate from 2018 to 2021. She received the 2023 Maine Poetry Award for short works.




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