- Counting breath
Far away from Fifth Avenue,
its tiny needle heart
No more falling earth.
No more trains bound by time.
No more hours in the gut of the city.
I unlace my breath,
count the times
I felt like a highway
in the middle of the afternoon,
stone hard wind
against the street sign:
- The hospital bed
- next to grandmother
- her final breath
- it hurts
- Following breath
When I’m down on my knees, uprooting the worn ground, scraping weeds from the side of the house, I try to catch my breath, a firefly on the run, but end up following it to the earthworm’s body as it writhes under the lawn bag.
It’s almost lunchtime, but I feel the need to stay and help it back to the dirt, return it home.
I pinch its middle and throw it towards the end of the garden, far away from my hand hoe, its slick body pulling itself through the damp earth.
Past the haze of my own desire to finish, to uproot the bare-limbed daisies, I follow earthworm, let out a low hummed breath, again and again, a sentimental ode, a mindful elegy for the impossible weight of our shared life.
- Measuring breath
Hold him tighter, mom. The vet pricks Brutus’ back with the IV. His eight-pound body squirms against my chest.
This will all be over soon, and I’ll get you ice cream, I whisper in his ear. His brown eyes bulge with fear.
How could I make him understand that everything is temporary, that even right then, as I held him I was already thinking of the after, the two of us, heads in the ice cream bowl of the future?
After 10 minutes, he’s hydrated enough to go home. The doctor prescribes him some antibiotics for the kennel cough, and says he should start eating and drinking.
He tilts his head towards mine, and we share a private smile under the cold, white lights of the infirmary.
With whatever strength consumes him, his tail sweeps my stomach, and he pants against my warm cheek.
Barely balancing, he lifts his head and pushes off, puts four paws to the tile.
Nose up, he walks out of the exam room, his fuzzy tail bouncing behind him as he leaves a trail of urine.
All hail, King Brutus.
I stand and watch him, his unrelenting presence, his refined face lowered, a heavy bloom sigh in a garden of daisies.
- Breathing outward (or dying breath)
From time to time, without knowing why, I watch the moon alone. Her moonshine face, a slick red bucket left in the rain, peels away the darkness.
Gasp moon crater.
Gasp virgin moon.
When I was a child, I’d watch her from my bed, through my moon window, through my moon heart.
I wish I were a moon river, a rock in her back, gravity in her throat.
Breathe out sparrow heart,
Breathe in hollow bone,
go on calling me
from outside the closed window,
under the shade of my roof,
as I call back to you,
as I declare my presence,
as I let my words form a breeze,
go somewhere I’ve never been.
LAST DAY ON EARTH
There have been so many nights of listening, yet not enough doing:
A vortex of nothingness in my notebook, the unopened mail and the unmade bed. On my last day on earth, I might let these things slide. I’ll be imperfect, write the crappiest sentence I can think of: I feel sad enough to sink a ship. In the evening, I won’t wear makeup or tie my hair. Instead, I’ll swivel in the thick of my chair, naked as a cat, the small electric bulb swinging above me.
And when the light grows less, I’ll start a new sentence. Something like: It was a dry summer. The trees starved for rain. Almost all the season was a bare rose, promising complete darkness, and nothing but sleep.
I want your heartache, pricked thumb, blackened dirt, tangled weed, little razor.
Make a hill out of me, a pile of chicken bones.
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Loren Kleinman has published four full-length poetry collections: Flamenco Sketches, The Dark Cave Between My Ribs, Breakable Things, and Stay with Me Awhile, and a memoir The Woman with a Million Hearts. Her personal essays have been published in Cosmopolitan, Redbook, Woman’s Day, Seventeen, USA Today, Good Housekeeping, and The Huffington Post, while her poetry appeared in The New York Times, Drunken Boat, The Moth, Columbia Journal, Patterson Literary Review, and more.
I flinch from the sparks.
Everything is blurs and ashes.
Once in a while, a cloud separates
and breaks from the herd
crowding the sky above me.
This lets a star,
like a brilliant mistake,
* * *
Night is a buzzing flail.
The moon’s rising
makes the raccoons drunk.
The smell of wet fur
from mating skunks
is a cold, sharp odor.
fill in my cracks
Everything around me
feeds in the night
and sleeps in the day.
* * *
The seasonal melodies of the geese have ended.
The wind plaits straw grass into ugly hats.
Like a predictable bout of insanity,
the snow begins.
* * *
I have lived through a string
of dry, thirsty weeks.
The rain is such an amazing,
* * *
Put down roots.
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Speak only with green lips.
Listen with wooden ears
then pretend you’re deaf.
Cover your heart with bark.
Your sap is a secret.
Keep safe your twigs.
Pruning is not an option.
John Barrale is an avid hiker and a jazz aficionado. His poetry has been published in the Paterson Literary Review, Red Wheel Barrow (Volumes 1 – 8,) Poetalk, NJ Journal of Poets, The Lullwater Review, California Quarterly, Tiger’s Eye Journal, The Penwood Review, The Aurorean, The William and Mary Review, Narrative Northeast, City LitRag, Instigatorzine, Unrorean, and East Meets West—American Writers Review.
If you care,
it’s a lot easier than you hear.
All you need to know is Still Point.
Find the Still Point in every breath.
Then exhale on Still and inhale on Point.
Still Point Still Point Still Point
The fricative st starts the exhale,
and the p and diphthong comes
from the pit of the gut.
Watch the Still Points roll on.
The West flexes the chest,
but the East watches
Actually it’s easier than that.
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You don’t need language.
Just exhale until the inhale
bounces off your diaphragm.
Push your breath away until
it comes back naturally
(like Mickey Rooney
teaching young Liz Talyor
to ride a horse
in National Velvet.)
Jim Klein has published more than 100 poems in publications including The Berkeley Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Joe Soap’s Canoe, Oxford Magazine, The Plastic Tower, Onthebus, Pulpsmith, Gandhabba, and many times in The Wormwood Review, including a Feature Section. He has also published articles in The Christian Century, James Joyce Quarterly, College English. He started two literary magazines, Lunch, at Fairleigh Dickinson, Rutherford, in the seventies, and currently The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow. Blue Chevies, his first book, came out in September, 2008, and To Eat Is Human Digest Divine in 2009. Trinis Talk Like the Birds, a chapbook, is on the online magazine Muse-Pie this month and be available in hard copy soon. He has been leading a workshop of Red Wheelbarrow poets in Rutherford for the past six years. He edits The Red Wheelbarrow literary magazine. He reads regularly at The Williams Center and Gaineville Café in Rutherford.
He’s inside the clock in the airport. Only the hour hand is painted in. The man dips his brush in the paint can and traces a long black line, uniting the center of the clock with the figure 12. Now the clock has a minute hand.
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He’s tall and handsome, although I can’t see his face. He cleans the glass surface with
a squeegee. Oblivious to all the passengers, he bends and washes a rag in the bucket.
Up again, he wipes off the black minute hand he just painted. The passengers look at each other: what is this guy doing inside the clock? And why did he wipe off the minute hand?
The man washes the rag in the bucket. If you ever wonder where does time go, well, let me tell you: it’s in the white bucket. He notices a spec left on the clock’s surface and cleans it up with his sleeve. Unhurried, he loads his brush with black paint and slowly paints a new long line from the center to the right of the figure 12. It’s one minute after 12.
The passengers are captivated. He ignores everyone and makes sure the black minute hand is perfect, with no wavy edges. He’s taking his time—he’s a perfectionist, that’s why. Then, with quick moves, he wipes the line with the squeegee. What happened? It wasn’t straight enough? What a waste of time. The man next to me returns to his paper, mumbling.
I get up and circle behind the huge clock. No one is there. There is no stair, no door.
The clock is so thin no one could fit inside. Back in the waiting room, I take my seat and look up: there he is, absorbed in his task, painting another minute.
Claudia Serea’s poems and translations have appeared in Field, New Letters, 5 a.m., Meridian, Word Riot, Apple Valley Review, among others. She is the author of Angels & Beasts (Phoenicia Publishing, Canada, 2012), A Dirt Road Hangs From the Sky (8th House Publishing, Canada, 2013), To Part Is to Die a Little (Cervena Barva Press, 2015) and Nothing Important Happened Today (Broadstone Books, 2016). Serea co-hosts The Williams Readings poetry series in Rutherford, NJ, and she is a founding editor of National Translation Month
In the courtyard of a temple where an ancient tree blooms
an old woman is waiting to greet you.
She locks her fingers. You step into her hands.
Lengthen your body. Your feet on her shoulders.
Another woman (not much younger than you) climbs
over your bodies, plants her toes on your shoulders,
for the next woman, younger, skinnier, growing hips.
She helps the younger children board the human rope,
almost toppling, if not for the old woman at the base,
Up in the leaves. And the two-year-old, just learning to walk,
dangles in the middle cluster of teens, who offer their long arms
and cupped hands. Because the two-year-old is carrying
the baby just born. The others tell her not to cry
while she presses her face to the baby’s cheeks.
Go up the six-year-old says. Up here! says the five-year-old.
The toddler above plops the thumb out of her mouth,
offering her hand, another presses her sweaty palms to the bark,
reaches for a branch. But the old woman trembles at the base,
and breathing heavily, drops to her knees. The tower collapses,
your foot stuck under roots growing through the stone floor.
All the girls fall—some even cling to the boughs—but the baby.
Somehow the baby found a nest on a branch.
Later, when the old woman begins to disappear, you tell her
you saw the tree lower its branch,
to catch the falling cry.
We decided to ask for our money back,
we women of color.
So we wrote a formal letter to the league of straight white men.
I can’t remember exactly what we said
but it was like filing a complaint to the manager
about some sandwich we ate,
the poor quality of a show
we had anticipated seeing for months
only to be disappointed. But it was something
more serious, like collateral.
I half-expected the straight white men to ignore our request,
if not take a whole year to reply,
or perhaps never get our letter in the mail
or even better, lose it
—denying having ever received it.
The straight white men wrote back immediately,
though it wasn’t the main person we addressed, who wrote back.
It was his roommate or some friend sleeping on their couch
whom they lazily assigned this task.
Wasting no time, they gave us a Visa gift card of $5 from Target,
to reimburse us for the damage done.
And their letter was way more formal than ours,
with the proper, stuffy language
and copyrights of things I didn’t even know we were talking about,
their words full of legal accuracy and politeness.
What’s more is that they made the mistake of calling us
“Women of Color, Inc.” as though we were an organization.
But this was unnecessary
because we didn’t call ourselves that.
Monica Sok is a 2016-2018 Stadler Fellow at Bucknell University. She has received honors from the National Endowment for the Arts, Kundiman, the MacDowell Colony, Saltonstall Foundation, Hedgebrook, the Elizabeth George Foundation, the Jerome Foundation, and elsewhere. Her chapbook Year Zero was selected by Marilyn Chin for a Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in the Kenyon Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, Narrative, and the New Republic, among others. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from New York University. She is from Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
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If Life Is As Short As Our Ancestors Insist It Is, Why Isn’t Everything I Want Already At My Feet
if I make it to heaven, I will ask for all of the small pleasures
I could have had on earth. And I’m sure this will upset
the divine order. I am a simple man. I want, mostly,
a year that will not kill me when it is over.
A hot stove and a wooden porch, bent under
the weight of my people. I was born, and it only got worse
from there. In the dead chill of a doctor’s office,
I am told what to cut back on and what to add more of.
None of this sounds like living. I sit in a running
car under a bath of orange light and eat the fried chicken
that I promised my love I would stray from
for the sake of my heart and its blood
labor. Still, there is something about the way a grease
stain begins small and then tiptoes its way along
the fabric of my pants. Here, finally, a country
worth living in. One that falls thick from whatever
it is we love so much that we can’t stop letting it kill
us. If we must die, let it be inside here. If we must.
Watching A Fight At The New Haven Dog Park, First Two Dogs, And Then Their Owners
The mailman still hands me bills like I should be lucky to have my name on anything in this town & I been here 14 months & all I get is paper telling me who I owe & when I owe them & what might be taken from me if I don’t hand over the faces of dead men & I love the electric architecture of noise on the corner of Chapel & State where the old dudes who drown their afternoons in warm liquid build porches from neon glass & yell I see you boy at the Yale kids who walk by dressed in salmon colored windbreakers regardless of whether or not the wind is present or asking to be broken & I, too, dress for the hell I want & not the hell that is most likely coming & at the fence outside the dog park my own dog pulls towards home & all of my dogs pull towards home & I am a leash sometimes & I send flowers to funerals from 3 states away now & I’m saying that which forces us to bare our teeth is all a matter of perspective & inside the dog park a game of fetch has gone awry & the dog that looks like a wheat field is circling the dog that looks like a melted ice cream cone & the wheat field is all teeth & the melted cone is a trembling mess & when the stakes are most violent I suppose we all become what we resemble most & what I mean is that the men on the corner are only drunks until the cops come & then they are scholars & I am from the kind of place where no one makes a fist if they aren’t going to throw the thing & when the wheat field lunges, the melted cone knows what’s what & sidesteps the glistening teeth with impeccable precision & I can’t believe that all of this is over a stick but I imagine that to a dog, a stick is an entire country & surely I’ve thrown hands in the name of less & the dogs have owners & the owners are chest to chest & yelling at each other about which dog started the fight that is a fight in name only, the wheat field dog lunging & missing & lunging & missing & I feel guilty when I start to hope that the dog owners throw a punch at each other just so I can remember what it looks like when a fist determines its own destiny & I haven’t seen a real fight since Chris from Linden mopped up some kid from the suburbs back in ‘02 outside of the Dairy Queen after the kid had one too many jokes about Chris’ pops catching 25 years on the back of some real shit & Chris knocked that boy out so fast he ain’t even get touched & we carried Chris home with his clean face & clean hands & so I really don’t have the time for all of the theater at this dog park & I am getting too old & I want only a good dog most days & I’m saying I want a dog that will never ask me to finish something it started & I’m saying I want a dog that will never make me clean its blood out of the streets.
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Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib is a poet, essayist, and cultural critic from Columbus, Ohio. His poetry has been published in Muzzle, Vinyl, PEN American, and various other journals. His essays and music criticism has been published in The FADER, Pitchfork, and The New York Times. He has been nominated for the pushcart prize, and his poem “Hestia” won the 2014 Capital University poetry prize. His first full length collection, The Crown Ain’t Worth Much, is forthcoming in 2016 from Button Poetry / Exploding Pinecone Press. He is a Callaloo Creative Writing Fellow, an interviewer at Union Station Magazine, and a poetry editor at Muzzle Magazine. He is a member of the poetry collective Echo Hotel with poet/essayist Eve Ewing. Additionally, he is a columnist at MTV News, where he writes about music, and fights to get Room Raiders back on the air. He thinks poems can change the world, but really wants to talk to you about music, sports, and sneakers.
Virtually, every Sunday, we gather
just the three of us: me, my sister,
the upper-right quadrant of our mother’s
face. It’s nearly impossible to take
a disembodied forehead, seriously, at face-value
which is why, when my sister reveals her girlfriend
has left because of the space sorrow rends
between them / the therapist / the raised dose
& mother you respond kids these days
are too reliant on our false little life-
boats, anyway, you’ll have to forgive
that we laughed & laughed, pealing
like so many bells calling the night home
to roost. Oh, mother. It’s been so long
since I was the girl in the kitchen
with the dull knife. So long mother
forgive me. It’s just funny, you
had two daughters & then
you didn’t & on the news or not
the world is ending / still / the world
of my kin not my kin & I can’t bear
knowing there’s a door & behind the door
a country that loves my sisters, that tends
their gorgeous lives & all they have to do is walk
from one dark into another endless…Mother,
like anyone, I need help raising the shroud
from my pathetic shoulders, though I do
get it: the pills / Big Pharma / sham
crystalline coats / so what
if that’s what lifts your children
here, fully to you?
BLACK FEELING 
There’s no logic to it, none
I can decipher.
I can pay attention,
pace around the internet
& nothing, no part
of my body
forces me to turn away.
On others, there’s a dial
stuck inside, always
bad news / smooth jazz
& I can’t turn it down,
the blinding static.
On the internet,
there are rooms
full of people
looking for a cure.
There are specialists,
a diagnosis: tinnitus
from, of course, the Latin
tinnire, to ring
as in: a telephone
but there’s no one home
to answer, no one
I imagine the hands
of whoever’s calling, godlike
in their persistence
down into my red
wiring — I’m sorry.
I don’t mean to sound
ungrateful. I am grateful
as a weathervane
this morning, again
the country ablaze
firework / gunfire / man
of music & I
alone in the manic dark, head
in my hands ringing
& ringing, faithful
goddamned blood alarm.
The cat wakes me up as always
rooting her head between my chest
& chin & failing this, licks the lacy crud
hardening in the corners of my mouth
with her darling tongue, which she lets hang
between her lips as though ponderous
or posing for the camera, at least
when she’s not using it to clean herself
from tail to toe to asshole & then my facehole,
which I know is a kind of favor—
after all, I’m hairless & ugly & too dumb
to lift my limbs from the bed & polish each one.
It’s been so long, a whole season of drought
& what? You think I need to lift my head & pray
for rain? You think I need to twirl
beneath the firmament, the bruising sky?
& maybe you’re right, or would be,
if I weren’t half-boy, half-beast. If I didn’t mark
these walls myself, slink around the furniture.
I confess, the cat is right. I do need help
keeping my face clean. Downy, these days,
as a newborn. There’s a reason, you know,
we’re all writers or gone / missing
from the world like we never happened
to have a skin, only some unhappy wind
passing through. I’ve lost you, haven’t I?
But what can I say? I’m still right
here, haven’t moved all morning & who could
be lonely when there’s always this spectral self
to say hello to? Hello you. Darling you. Hello
sentry of my peace. Busy little tongue.
Cameron Awkward-Rich is the author of the chapbook Transit (Button Poetry, 2015) and his debut collection, Sympathetic Little Monster,was published by Ricochet Editions in 2016. He is a Cave Canem Fellow, a poetry editor at Muzzle Magazine, and currently a doctoral candidate in Modern Thought & Literature at Stanford University.
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You ask me why I did not
pin a star beside this city
or that, & my maps
are gathered in graphite
& not ink.
Perhaps I did,
& did not care
to rebuild that city
just yet for you.
I wanted to remember
a song curling up the vents
& bent over my ear
like the willow tree outside
rooted deep as basement:
Brother, or birds, now gone.
What between this city’s bricks
counts as mortar, counts as awl?
Perhaps you lift a stone,
& perhaps a snowplow
or chipmunk escapes,
tiny roar scraping asphalt
as it slips away among the lilacs.
Perhaps I lift a bonsai pot
or a hummingbird’s wing,
& perhaps all the names
gathered in my shirt hem
fall in handfuls as I work
& perhaps I don’t notice
until we finish, too late—
the deer come
swift toward this last bit
of rubble, & we are
wearing the wrong colors.
I don’t know your face
but I recognize you
as a man selling lemons
or limes in the rain,
or I don’t & you are
only membranes of light
between the palm
& its coin or another
palm never pressed
Are you a woman
who swallows rain
in the form of crushed ice?
Or a wolf-child
who sleeps in the garage
pooling so fast with exhaust
I can’t hold it all together
with one breath? & here
between you and you,
if I wipe the rain
from my eyes, then you are
both & neither & gone.
Let me step down, I said,
or I didn’t & wouldn’t
step down into the water
because it was everything
my body isn’t & was
ready to engulf my face
& steal its edges away
with its retreating
impression of me,
the version that was
just my face & maybe
a bit more or less.
Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello is the author of Hour of the Ox, which won the 2015 AWP Donald Hall Prize for Poetry (Pittsburgh, 2016), and has received poetry fellowships from Kundiman and the Knight Foundation, among others. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, Best New Poets 2015, Columbia: A Journal of Literature & Art, december magazine, Los Angeles Review of Books Quarterly, Narrative Magazine, and more. She serves as cofounding editor for Print-Oriented Bastards and producer for The Working Poet Radio Show. www.marcicalabretta.com.
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She mourns the soft, upturned earth of her own body; the failed harvest hangs in her
stomach like a sickness, the grave of the Unknown Soldier hidden under her own skin, her skin a thin cotton sheet over diseased wheat, her rough-spun shirt a funeral shroud of her own creation.
She is unstable ; the swells of her body have been followed by unmotion, like a sail caught
suddenly without wind, folding back upon itself: like the moon stretching out to a glowing orb, but stumbling upon its way and then only collapsing back to a sliver halfway. The earned softness of her body decomposes off her, leaving her bones thick and hard , and organs small , and bounded .
Alone, in the moonlight, she wanes.
Jacinta is a student studying physics and literary arts at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Her favorite emoticon is the winky face and her favorite pastime is Netflix. She enjoys laughing, dancing and green teas.
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We loved Mr. Pasternak before we knew what love was. He was young and good-looking, and he was the only teacher we didn’t sense secretly needing the approval or friendship of us, his eighth-grade charges. His clothes didn’t fit — his button-ups hung loose on his body and his pants were cut too long — but he didn’t care if we thought he looked like a cool teacher, which made him a cool teacher. When he took over as the high school cross-country coach, he laced up his running shoes every afternoon and ran every mile along with the team. The former coach had just driven beside the team in his van, hanging back a little, allegedly to look at their butts as they ran.
We were not quite brave enough to forge lateness permission slips from our parents. We were ashamed to be seen in the outlet stores of our favorite brand names, and planned elaborate lies to explain why we were there in case we were ever spotted and confronted. We were confident in our knowledge of how sex worked, but still terrified of being able to perform it competently. We were worried about our parents divorcing. We were afraid that no one’s older sibling would ever like us enough to buy us beer. We were definitely going to try out for the team — any team — once we gained enough weight. Mr. P appeared at Gerald R. Ford Middle and High School when we needed him most, when we were skeptical that adult men came in forms besides our jowly, impotent dads and our self-important, stoned older brothers. He had a picture of his wife on his desk, and she was prettier than any girl we knew in real life. The girls said they heard they got married at midnight on New Year’s Eve, and we squirreled this information away to add to our nascent understanding of romance.
Our devotion to him transcended even our hatred for Derek, which was substantial. Derek was so frail and dweebishly irritating; it was annoying just to know that he was spending homeroom painstakingly sketching cartoon characters with big eyes and spiky hair. Looking at him was like an itch that could only be scratched by spitting into his food while walking by him at lunch, tripping him if a group of high schoolers walked by so that they would know that just because we were standing near him didn’t mean we were friends. But once Mr. P starting teaching World History, Derek wasn’t at lunch anymore — instead, he ate in Mr. P’s room with him. We could hear them talking from the hallway, and stung with jealousy. But we felt like we had to honor Mr. P’s tacit endorsement of Derek. We stopped performing imitations of his high, soft voice and making fun of his areolae when we changed for gym.
Not even Mr. P could make us excited about learning; not really. But we did care about at least doing okay in his class. Sometimes we had nightmares about turning in homework only to have Mr.
P shake his head and say “You didn’t try at all, did you?”
He taught us about the plague, and we learned about how fleas had changed the course of history. “But they didn’t know that at the time,” Mr. P told us. “In the 14th century, all they knew was that everyone around them was dying. They had no idea why.” He told us about the useless things people tried in an attempt to ward off death: cleaner air, better diet, prayer. We looked at engravings of flagellants wandering the countryside whipping themselves with musical accompaniment in an attempt to show God they were sorry. We tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a world that so profoundly misunderstood how people worked, what made them well.
Mr. P handed out worksheets about the hierarchy of the church in the 1300s and had us work on them in groups of three. As we huddled, he moved about the room, occasionally tapping a student on the shoulder and whispering, after which they got up and stood against the wall. By the time the class period was over, most of the class was standing to the side, and none of our worksheets were finished. “You’ve just experienced the black plague,” Mr. P said solemnly. “All of you —“ he swept his arm towards the people against the wall — “are dead.” Those of us still sitting beheld the deceased, trying to drum up a real sense of grief. We tried to call forth shock and sadness even for Derek, who fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. We couldn’t.
The next week in homeroom, we watched a movie about a Simon Hutchins, a football player who had been injured on the field. The camera panned over yearbook photos that showed him grinning, with only mild acne, broad shoulders and a minimum of neck. When Hutchins addressed the camera directly, it was from a wheelchair; he had been paralyzed after a vicious sack. Someone made a joke about his penis not working, and we tittered until Mr. P glared. “Do you think this is a joke?” he asked. “Think about how lucky you are, to get to think this is funny.” He seemed genuinely mad, and we were ashamed, although we still wondered about the football player’s dick. After the video, Mr. P turned the lights back on. “Come on, line up at the door. Let’s go.” We were to move to the auditorium where Hutchins would visit his real-life presence upon us in the form of an assembly about disabilities.
Somehow it reached us while filing into the auditorium, leaning forward between the heads and shoulders of others to pass it along. Did we know that the reason this guy was here at all was because he had known Mr. P’s wife? Not just known her; they had dated. Even better — even worse — Mr. P’s wife had been his high school girlfriend, had even been at the fateful game when he fell to the ground and couldn’t get up under his own power. “That can’t be true,” someone said. “What, she broke up with a cripple in his hospital bed?” We weren’t ready to believe it either. But here inside the auditorium, where our eyes weren’t yet used to the light, there was Mr. P up near the stage. He was leaning over Hutchins with the same grave charm he used with us when looking over our worksheets. We were suddenly so aware of his body, of how functional it was — the legs that carried him down the sidewalk with the cross-country team, the arms that reached for his wife and looped fluidly around her waist when he stood. Because that was the thing; while Mr. P’s hanging out with the wheelchair dude might not have been suspicious in itself, Mr. P’s wife was standing off to the side, between the wheelchair and the stage. She was as pretty as her photo made her look, staring down at her hands instead of at Mr. P or Simon Hutchins. “Why else would she be here?” someone whispered, and we couldn’t find a reason. “He stole a cripple’s girlfriend?” someone else hissed.
We settled into seats with murmurs of indignation and protestation humming through the auditorium. “You’re making this up,” we heard Derek’s voice from a few rows over. “You don’t know that.”
We wanted more than ever before to dump an open can of Coke into his backpack.
The speaker’s wheelchair propelled him up a ramp onto the stage, where he joined the vice principal at the podium. Mr. P and his wife took seats in the front row, and we saw their heads lean in towards each other, and we wanted more than anything to know what they were saying. The vice principal laid a hand on the speaker’s shoulder and leaned in towards the microphone: “Today it’s my pleasure to introduce—“ But she had to stop and hold up a hand to block the wad of paper flying at her. “Excuse me!” she bellowed into the microphone, but three more wads of paper landed on the stage. “Hey!” Mr. P stood up and turned to look at us. He was hit in the face with what looked like a pack of gum.
Some of us were aiming at the speaker, some of us at Mr. P, some at his wife. A handful of us went for Derek, who got drilled in the back of the head by a hard plastic pencil case. Mr. P’s wife covered her face and the vice principal tried yelling into the microphone but we couldn’t hear her over the sound of ourselves hooting and laughing, our voices rising into a throaty shriek that sounded much bigger and more important than any one of us alone.
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Rachel Kincaid is a Bostonian getting used to the Midwest. Her work has appeared in Forklift, Ohio; Threepenny Review; The Awl and is forthcoming in Paper Darts.