damselfly press http://damselflypress.net A Gathering of Women's Voices Mon, 15 Dec 2014 21:31:33 +0000 en hourly 1 http://wordpress.org/?v=3.1.1 Submission Period Closed for Thirtieth Issue http://damselflypress.net/editorial/submission-period-closed-for-thirtieth-issue/ http://damselflypress.net/editorial/submission-period-closed-for-thirtieth-issue/#comments Mon, 15 Dec 2014 21:31:33 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=674 The submission period for the thirtieth issue of damselfly press is now closed. Look for the issue January 15, 2015.

As always, thank you to our submitters.

 

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Publication of Twenty-Ninth Issue and Call for Submissions http://damselflypress.net/editorial/publication-of-twenty-ninth-issue-and-call-for-submissions/ http://damselflypress.net/editorial/publication-of-twenty-ninth-issue-and-call-for-submissions/#comments Wed, 15 Oct 2014 00:05:30 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=665 As winter approaches, writers and readers alike become more introspective in preparation for the months ahead. The poetry and essay featured in our twenty-ninth issue are contemplative in nature. As always, thank you to all of our submitters. We appreciate your readership and continued encouragement from across the globe.

The thirtieth issue of damselfly press will be available January 15th, 2015. If you’d like to submit, please first visit our guidelines section and send us your submission by December 15th, 2014.

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Issue 29 Poetry http://damselflypress.net/poetry/issue-29-poetry/ http://damselflypress.net/poetry/issue-29-poetry/#comments Wed, 15 Oct 2014 00:02:32 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=661 Math
Listen to the Poem

I ladle cornmeal batter into the center
of a waffle iron where the quadrants meet;
it dribbles into miniature squares

and spreads to the rim, borrowing
the pan’s geometry. In the breakfast nook,
my husband pours thick, black coffee

and disappears behind the newspaper, tapping
the beat to Lyle Lovett. The song ends,
but his tap continues, a nervous tic.

Early this morning, after another night
out with a woman, he stumbled
in the backdoor and tried to sneak

into bed; 2:51 glowed green on my clock.
I sunk my face into my pillow to bury sobs,
but how does one bury fifteen years?

Now I clamp the jaws
of the waffle iron shut to bake a circle
of gold; it hisses through parted lips.

- Sally Vogl received an MFA in Creative Writing from California State University at Fresno. Some of her work has appeared in The Comstock Review, Hoot Review, and Writers’ Journal. Sally teaches visually impaired students in Fresno public schools.

 

New Plan

Words are full of holes
and holes are full of words.
“Robin, winter, love.”

This chance. This side of loss.
This side of ancestry.
This dare, this prayer, this proof.

Spring will require
more fiction then we needed
last year.

I want to know how to hone
huge things, being
a cutter of syllables.

- Nancy Scott’s over 600 essays and poems have appeared in magazines, literary journals, anthologies, and newspapers, and as audio commentaries. She won First Prize in the 2009 International Onkyo Braille Essay Contest, and has published three chapbooks. Recent work appears in Breath and Shadow, Contemporary Haibun Online, and Stone Voices.

 

Exceptional Tide
Listen to the Poem

I needed to see the rock
large enough for four people
together with a minister.
Two little girls with birds
of paradise on a ledge above.
Determined couples since broken:
four estranged limbs
from a tree felled by
rot as deep as the heart

I needed to see the rock
seventeen years later
still at the end of a winter’s day.
Down a wet fetid trail
with rain as close to snow
as thirty five degrees would allow.
My hands jammed in black jacket
pockets this time instead of green;
Hair long ash not short strong brown.

I needed to see the rock;
to see it somehow still shine
when clouds were so low
nearby islands have gone missing.
But my rock hung right below
rhythmic cloudy salt water,
under an exceptional tide,
weighted with drift wood stumps,
face down drowned at the end.

- Karen Vande Bossche has been a poet for forty years. She teaches middle school in Bellingham, WA, and is always happiest when writing.

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Issue 29 Nonfiction http://damselflypress.net/nonfiction/issue-29-nonfiction/ http://damselflypress.net/nonfiction/issue-29-nonfiction/#comments Tue, 14 Oct 2014 23:55:06 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=659 Beauty Off-Scale

My mother and I talk every day about the same thing. Diets. She calls me during a break from helping her patient to the bathroom and cooking meals. I picture her sitting in the corner of a brightly lit kitchen, cell phone pressed to her ear, nose stuck between the pages of a newly acquired diet bible.

“I ordered this one from PBS. This doctor is amazing! His weight loss plan is a sure thing.”

While she talks, I attempt to sound interested with occasional grunts and “uh huh” while I’m surfing the web. Sometimes I put her on speakerphone while I wash dishes or oil my hair.

“It comes on again tonight,” she says. “I’ll call you so you can watch it.”

She goes through a list of things I should know about weight gain, weight loss, exercising, gourmet dressings, the ugly truth about extra virgin olive oil. She talks about this latest doctor like he’s the Messiah, the one who is going to change her life and change the world, one digital scale at a time.

Later, she wants me to check the price of a VitaMix processor, and compare it to Montel Jordan’s Emulsifier and Wolfgang Puck’s Food Processor, and possibly Emeril Lagasse’s and the regular juicer from Jack Lalane. I sigh and agree, as always.

*

When my mother, Esther, was in her twenties, a nursing student in Rio de Janeiro, she was what the Brazilians called a “Morena,” a hot tanned brunette with thick thighs and wide, round, child-bearing hips. These days she shows me pictures of her lying on a beach in Rio with her roommate, Marlie, an overweight girl with a heart of gold and an out-of-control eating disorder.

“Marlie used to eat and cry and curse herself out while eating,” my mother says. “She used to say, ‘Stop it Marlie, you are so stupid! You are so fat and stupid,’ while eating an entire bowl of Fejoadas. No one could stop her.”

Mom could wear what Marlie couldn’t wear, and on that beach she was golden like an Inca princess, strolling down the shore in a cherry-red mono-kini. I am always struck by our resemblance. If I were in my twenties and sun-baked, that’s what I would look like. Mom was hot. She shows me pictures of her perched on cliffs and hills overlooking the beach of Rio, pictures of her on cruise ships crossing the Panama Canal, on campus with her friends, in her dorm with her fellow nursing classmates, drunk and pale from partying. Who was that woman? She was nothing like the woman I know now, who hides her bald spot with scarves, turbans and wigs out of shame, who wears Mom jeans and large shirts she hopes will swallow her gut.

My mother today watches the Home Shopping Network to order facial creams from the leading experts in dermatology, spends nearly hundreds for temporary fixes so she can look younger, ordering lengthening mascaras, root touch-up wands, jeans that will slim her down and make her “comfortable.”

“I’m thinking about ordering those pajama jeans,” she said once, her voice brimming with charisma. “They look so nice and slimming. What do you think?”

“Mom, no! Please, no pajama jeans. You’re one phone call always from ordering a Snuggie. Are you kidding me?”

She steps on the scale every morning, free-falls into a whirlpool of depression when she gains just one extra pound, and heals her wounded heart by eating an entire can of roasted almonds or walnuts and a king size bar of Hershey’s chocolate. She confesses to me what she has done only after she has eaten them, when she calls me at night exhausted from work, and knowing her, I don’t try hard to imagine what really happened. She’s eaten them in her car, right after exiting the supermarket, with her eyes closed with each bite, and on days when she’s really depressed, she probably rocked herself back and forth to comfort herself.

My memory of Mom is laced with images of her prancing through our kitchen in La Plaine, outside of Port-au-Prince in Haiti. It seems everything she did was tied to that space, in this house planted in the middle of nowhere, literally, smack in the midst of overgrown sugarcane and Neem trees. Removed from the city, she felt disconnected, further from her parents and her friends. I was only two years old, and fragile, susceptible to stomach cramps.

“Don’t let her drink any colas or carbonated drinks,” my pediatrician said.

Mom converted me to tisanes, boiling water infused with lettuce leaves, and she occupied her time gluing our family together with food. I can still see her in the kitchen, laying her ingredients out on the blue-tiled counter-top. On the wall, she kept track of time with a clock stuck to the center of a blue frying pan. I watched her strain and preserve her own yogurt in little measured plastic pots with the picture of a cow, and she made her own pikliz in a mason jar and locked away in the garde-manger. Her fingers, like winged birds, would flutter around an egg and delicately remove the top when making me oeuf a la coque for breakfast, and placed them in little silver egg cups with a long-stemmed spoon inside and a salt shaker next to it. On weekends, I propped myself up on the old red vinyl chairs and watched her roll out her pizza-dough before spreading ketchup and mustard on it, and topping it with cheese. If I got out of line, her favorite spanking weapon was a plastic egg spoon that lit my legs and bum on fire. She could cook and parent at the same time without leaving the kitchen.

My mother kept all her recipes in an old black notebook with yellow pages, something she’d acquired from old aunts in the family. As I grew, she let me take a peek and asked if I wanted to learn how to make things. I always said no. As much as I enjoyed watching her, cooking to me was a boring process. What I cared about was having the food on my plate. I didn’t want to sweat making it, and I didn’t want to burn my fingers trying to light the defunct gas stove in the kitchen. Everyone jumped back when the fire actually caught and the blue flames came on.

“You will have to learn some day,” she said.

Someday, I’d have to learn to make my own dressing with chopped shallots and vinegar, my own rice pudding, my own gratin dauphinois, and when I turned seven, she pulled the vinyl chair in front of the stove and waited for me to climb up and cook my first spaghetti dish.

Spaghetti Itala was a product of the Dominican Republic, and I had begged my mother to buy it. I had fallen in love with the commercial. What I loved was the noodles’ odd shape, how they coiled like small tumble-weed or clumps of hay.

“Please, please, can we get that? It must taste so good,” I told her.

I didn’t realize I had to actually cook it, and I cried a little when I approached the steaming pot. The water was boiling hot like magma in a live volcano.

“It’s too hot,” I told her.

“Drop it in there,” she ordered, her voice sharp as it always is when she grows impatient. “Stop whining.”

The vapor burned my little fingers, and for fear of scorching myself, I dropped the first coil into the water from a distance.

“Get closer,” she pressed. “Otherwise you’ll splash water everywhere.”
I decided I hated cooking, and when I was done, I got off the chair and ran. If that was cooking, I wanted nothing to do with it. Later, my father reprimanded her for stressing me out, and those were the days where I was thankful that he stood up for me, and that he told her what I couldn’t say myself.

“She’s just a girl, leave her alone.”

Those were the days when I begged him to get me a different Mommy, because this one was too mean, and my father always nodded yes, okay, we’d get another mother, and Mom would get up and walk away, locking herself in the guest room.

The rest of the time, when she wasn’t mean Mommy, she was a talented fairy, a magician pulling tricks out of an invisible top-hat, quickly turning up cheese platters and deviled eggs, whipping up soups for my father’s unannounced friends.

“You’re a woman, you figure out what to do!” my father would hiss under his breath, sneaking into the kitchen to fill the ice bucket.

“But we have nothing,” my mother would say. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing guests.”

She’d hear the laughter and exaggerated accents rolling off the tongues of strangers, and she’d manage to whip out a vegetable soup, slices of fried sweet plantain rolled into a coil around ground beef, sherberts and fruit salads for dessert. The guests would leave, thanking her for the wonderful dinner, and she would sit there, her chin cupped in her hand as they slammed their doors and drove away. My father would then walk into the bedroom quietly and stay in for the night, oblivious that she had just cooked the last of our food.

*

Now her life is reduced to shedding skins, dieting, to dreams of exercising in a gym, to longing for a personal trainer, and then more diets, cleanses, stretches, fasts. There’s been the Atkins Diet, the Master Cleanse, the Fiber 35 Diet, the Flat Belly diet, the plant-based diet, the Dean Ornish diet, the orange or grapefruit juice fast, the Dr. Fuhrman diet. She’s bought the Nutri-System meals in a BigLots freezer. She pushed herself to hire a personal trainer and lost twenty pounds, then gained it back. She tried working out with DVDs, with images from a book, with my aunt around her Miami Lakes Complex. Everything always fails after a while.

“When I win the Powerball,” she says, “I’ll be able to hire a plastic surgeon. I already bought my tickets for today.”

Her hope is that a surgeon can make her beautiful, that he can nip and force the eternal swelling of her belly down, erase away the surgery scars for her gall bladder removal, tuck in her double chin, reshape her arms weighed by the scarred lymph nodes during her mastectomy, and then laser away the unsightly facial hair she’s battled all her life, reconstruct the breast she once lost to a battle with cancer and replaced with a wobbly flesh-tone piece of silicone that she expertly wraps in old scarves to preserve the prosthetic, because prosthetics run for at least two hundred dollars, and two hundred dollars are hard to come by, when you work as an independent contractor, an at-home nurse for an agency that pimps you hard, seven-days a week for a check that only covers the bills and a twenty-dollar pedicure.

These are sacrifices my mother has made in the United States, kneeling on hard tiles to scrub, a single brush-in-hand, the entire flooring of a million-dollar mansion, iron a banker’s clothes, fix an alcoholic housewife’s dinner, fight off their mentally unstable son and his butcher knife attacks, work herself to the very bone for a measly check. She’s had to walk from one bus stop to the other, work two jobs, room in an efficiency at her relatives, stay up at night eating an entire container of Edy’s ice cream and a fried pork griyo plate from Chez Samson while recording movies and cartoons she thought my brother and I, still little back home in Haiti, would like to watch. I watched indeed, every day of the week of an entire summer before the next, and learned to say all the lines in all the scenes of The Adams Family or Disney’s Swiss Family Robinson, because I had them memorized. I could recite a movie standing up, sitting down, in my sleep, and that is the history of how I learned English. I learned the important stuff first. The movie lines.

One cancer battle and twenty five years of solitude later, she’s on the edge of a chair at a patient’s house, telling me all this, all her scars, all her wrinkles, confessing to me that she feels ugly inside and out. Under the belly, the chin, the arms, the fat rolls on her back, are the tears for a life she realized she’d never have, the weight of my father’s words or lack of words, his constant shots at her weight, his need to remind me, when I was just a girl, that “you’re going to be fat, just like your mother, just look at yourself,” his need to compare me to my skinny friends during gatherings and remind me how pudgy I was. My mother yearns to have said something the first time he told her, “I had wished when I married you that I could have molded you into something decent, into something I’d want,” to have perhaps slapped him, spat in his face when he said, “That’s why I got married, to have someone to take care of me because I had no family.” This weight she carries is really that of silence, of acceptance, of compliance. That’s why she, when looking in the mirror, will never be happy, will never see the beauty of her sacrifice. There will always be the reflection of a sad Esther staring back, an Esther that used to be free like she was in Brazil, when she danced the Samba and ate oranges and shared ice cream with the girls and boys of Rio de Janeiro.

*

Lately, I’ve been developing the signs of my mother’s hereditary obsession with beauty, of an inherited need to crawl out of this shell, shift out of my own shape. Lately, I’ve been stretching the skin of my forehead to erase the wrinkle left behind by worry, but it’s there, when I’m not looking or when I’m thinking too much. I feel its presence, these days, gleaming across my face like the dusty, sparkly trail of the Milky Way up in space. I’ve been talking to my mother about it, and she’s been recommending creams and tricks, but I know the truth is always there in the mirror. I’m getting heavy, I’m getting old, and the proof is in the third pair of jeans I’ve ripped in one year, in my bras that no longer fit and force me to “upgrade” my cup size.

When my mother sees me, she points it out, that I should be careful, that I should exercise more and not give up like she did.

“I just don’t want you to be like me,” she said. “The more you let yourself go, the harder it is to get back in the swing of exercise.”

I know she speaks out of concern, but I wonder, if as a daughter, as the recipient of all her stories and burden of her past, the weight of her self-consciousness and depression, I will not fall into the same trap. I’ve already inherited her insecurities.

So I double up on yoga classes, I try Pilates, I sign up for half marathons, just to force me into being athletic. But, in my mind, I think I do it for her just as much as I do it for myself. Because I too have a need to stroll down a beach with my children, maybe in a mono-kini, maybe in a one piece, but in this dream of mine, I hope I will feel free of self-awareness. I hope that I will always like what I see when glancing in the mirror. And so, I let her talk. I let her go on with her lectures on nutrition, on the shows she’s just watched, on the books she just read, and I won’t interrupt her, I won’t stop her, and because that’s how I tell her I love her. I let her talk.

- Fabienne Josaphat is a writer living in Miami. She recently graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Florida International University. Her previous publications include The Masters Review, The Caribbean Writer, Small Axe Literary Salon, and Mandala Literary Journal.

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Submission Period Closed for Twenty-Ninth Issue http://damselflypress.net/editorial/submission-period-closed-for-twenty-ninth-issue/ http://damselflypress.net/editorial/submission-period-closed-for-twenty-ninth-issue/#comments Mon, 15 Sep 2014 14:07:48 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=654 The submission period for the twenty-ninth issue of damselfly press is now closed. Look for the issue October 15, 2014.

As always, thank you to our submitters.

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Publication of Twenty-Eighth Issue and Call for Submissions http://damselflypress.net/editorial/publication-of-twenty-eighth-issue-and-call-for-submissions/ http://damselflypress.net/editorial/publication-of-twenty-eighth-issue-and-call-for-submissions/#comments Tue, 15 Jul 2014 00:14:47 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=637 An underlying theme contained in our twenty-eighth issue centers on the men in our lives. So take a break from your summer schedule and enjoy these essays and poems. As always, thank you to all of our submitters. We appreciate your readership and continued encouragement from across the globe.

The twenty-ninth issue of damselfly press will be available October 15th, 2014. If you’d like to submit, please first visit our guidelines section and send us your submission by September 15th, 2014.

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Issue 28 Poetry http://damselflypress.net/poetry/issue-28-poetry/ http://damselflypress.net/poetry/issue-28-poetry/#comments Tue, 15 Jul 2014 00:07:53 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=630 Seacalls
Listen to the Poem

I wouldn’t know how to transform this scene into a Grecian bacchanal if I tried. I think of Roman baths and then of Medieval London, streets overcome with fecal matter and drunks and the plague. I don’t want to talk about male camaraderie – too much has been said, and said again, and mythologized, and I just don’t care anymore about how much men love each other. Greece is a myth I’d like to visit, though I know I’ll never walk into its crystal waters. I’ll never pop out of a shell immaculately beautiful, like a newly formed pearl, like the birth of Venus, like a dream of death defied by immortal beauty. Beauty here is young and aggressive, popping out of too-short shorts and tank tops. I wish for a breeze surprising and welcome, occurring like a realization of love, a sudden sensation of gratitude for everything terrible and wonderful that has ever happened to you. I don’t fancy myself prude, but I can see that something has been lost under all this fluorescent lighting, though so much more is being shown. Nakedness has become a precursor to examination. I overhear a man complain about his wife to bond with another man. I see a woman look forlorn at the space in front of her. She is widowed from the other shoppers, the space around her, her own feelings. I see young girls, unafraid and giggling, and I am afraid for them. They want to announce their presence, pass around the intoxicating vibrancy of their youth. I was one once, before harassment, before violation, before loss. I know they’ll be followed and hollered at, told to smile (because pretty things should never look sad). If they never leave this town, the only truth they’ll feel is the hungry look of an older man’s stare along their frame, like a rough hand against a delicate face; like a rough hand advancing on their thighs, unwelcome; like a rough hand grabbing for pearls, hoping for profit; like a rough hand gathering oyster shells and smashing them into sand.

- Rachel Samanie holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and a BA in English from UC Berkeley. She has been published in The Georgetown Review and listed as the single Honorable Mention for the Carol Kyle Award and Robert J. and Katharine Carr Graduate Poetry Prize.

Rock skipping
Listen to the Poem

The first stone must be thrown
and it’s up to me, to you.

You can’t retweet
what’s never been said.

Off key is a key, and that’s better
than none. The first daughter

is not the seventh son.
But we learn dancing on pins

to reach high— like every moment
should be touchdown, and every

verb should be examine. Everyone
is ripple and skip. Every ripple is good.

This time, be the plunk we look to,
and ask after. Go ahead, skip.

- Xan L. Roberti is the winner of the 2014 New South Poetry Contest and runner up in the Mississippi Valley Poetry Contest. She received her MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared in journals such as Beloit Poetry Journal; Off Channel; Goodfoot; No, Dear; and Constellation Magazine. Her memoir, Portable Housing, was nominated for the Walter Sindlinger Award at Columbia University Teachers College.

Still
Listen to the Poem

Soaping dishes in the kitchen sink, watching
light and wind filter through the stained-
glass chimes you hung out on the porch,
I think about the quiet smallness of the moments

in which I love you best: the lulls, the Sunday
afternoons that stretch like yawns. You’re out there,
in our yard, past the porch’s bowed railing and crooked
steps, determined to teach wisteria how to grow

around the railing now, though the whole thing needs
fixing, and I can see you—your shoulders
growing redder in the warm, bright spring as you dip
below my sight to run thin, green wires

around the tendrils and the wood. Our best days
are the days like this: the ones in which you buy asparagus
from a plaid-shirted farmer and manage not to overcook it,
or when I find earthy beer on sale and we drink

on that sagging porch while the stars come out. We spend
our weekends away from cubicles and break-room coffees—
instead, stripping printed wallpaper from the kitchen; staining
cabinets a brighter, cheerier brown; sketching how we think

these rooms should be. Sometimes you draw a cradle
in the one beside ours—the room I fill with bookshelves—
and cock your head when I thumb it to a smudge.

You pull weeds in our yard. I air the rooms that still smell
dry and sour, like ancient linen and the lives of others.
We hammer and scrape, fit tongue in groove for new floorings,
write brief notes on painters’ tape. Behind you, I can see

the willow’s base has thickened from our kitchen window;
its thin branches wave like hair. How frequent our small moments.
We are so often going nowhere together, in this house
we are trying to rebuild ourselves, under rafter beams
you have planed with your own hands. I ask that you

remember the cradle we once bought, the one I chopped
to kindling when I lost her. I would not stop
crying, and you brought me the willow sapling—said
it would always weep so that I wouldn’t feel I had to.

- Liz Purvis considers herself to be a native of the South at large, if it’ll have her, and is a graduate student completing an MFA in Poetry at NC State University. Her work has been published in Colonnades, Decades Review, Outrageous Fortune!, and Boston Poetry Magazine.

The Last Words of My American History Teacher
Listen to the Poem

Now he sees lights when he coughs,
whether or not his eyes are open.
When he gets thirsty, he asks us
for a Molotov, asks if we’ll put some milk
on the floor for Ally McBeal. She meows
at our feet as we search for bowls, her ribs
striping her fur, and in the background,
he’s quizzing the coat rack about Pilgrims.

The day nurse counts his pulse, tells us
he’s been at it all day: grading the newspaper,
mumbling about John Brown’s raid. He asks us
to pull down the maps and point out Bulgaria.
He wants to bask in its shades of blue.
But in his house, the only maps are in books,
so we pull down the shades and shift into smiles.

He used to sing Hey Jude and Disney songs
in the hallways, his shirt a little disheveled,
his fingers powdered with chalk. We begged him
to stop, said we’d study harder for exams,
memorize The Gettysburg Address
if only he’d keep himself from singing.

Now his records are scattered on the floor
with the cat’s toys. The plants are all dying.
He talks about Columbus and cleaning products,
game shows and D-Day. He talks about
Gerald Ford falling down the stairs.

The night nurse comes at eight. We tell her
he’s been at it all day: coughs like fireworks,
attempts at geography comedy. She nods,
counts his pulse, then shuffles off to the bathroom.

We look out the window, note the color of the sky.
We say it’s getting late. We say we should
let him go. He stares at us, blanketed and small.

Calling for Ally McBeal, his voice splinters in his mouth.
Still staring and staring, he says: Don’t forget the Cold War,

don’t forget that time I broke the chalk.

- Megan Collins holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Boston University. She teaches creative writing at the Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts, as well as literature at Central Connecticut State University. Her most recent publications are forthcoming in literary journals Blast Furnace, Tinderbox, Hartskill Review, and Toad.

Delicious
Listen to the Poem

I watched him in the apple orchard
walking towards me in our thirty-sixth
year of marriage, seeing him between
the rows, the signs marked Mac, Fuji,
Delicious, there among the fruit, the apples
suspended and fallen, the smell of apples,
the red and golden orbs, sun in our eyes,
the air crisp, the ground still under our feet.

- Lin Nelson Benedek lives in the Santa Monica Mountains above Los Angeles with her husband and son. She works as a marriage and family therapist and is a student in the MFA program at Pacific University. Benedek has had her poems published online at Postcard Memoirs, Flutter Poetry Journal, Chaparral and Grey Sparrow.

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Issue 28 Nonfiction http://damselflypress.net/nonfiction/issue-28-nonfiction/ http://damselflypress.net/nonfiction/issue-28-nonfiction/#comments Mon, 14 Jul 2014 23:39:52 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=628 The Other Man

I always let them down gently but firmly. A quiet place with a quick exit. Sometimes I have their belongings already boxed up—his blues records, his T-shirt I liked to sleep in, the earrings he bought for me on a business trip—so they don’t have to go through an awkward epilogue. I chalk it all up to It’s not you, it’s me, and use some varying formula of daddy issues plus fear of commitment plus you deserve better. I tell them they will find the perfect woman. I wish them nothing but the best. And once I am home and the door is closed and locked behind me, I pour myself a good drink.

The first question men ask when I break it off : “Is there someone else?”

I pat their shoulders. “No, of course not.” I smile reassuringly.

I want to tell them the truth.

A couple of them have met the other guy in my life. My son, Thaddeus, is seven. He’s sweet as a candy apple when he wants to be and a little jerk on the bad days, but all parents experience a piece of heaven and hell wrapped up in something that can barely peddle a tricycle.

When Thaddeus’ father and I got divorced, Thaddeus was only a year old, and I promised myself I wouldn’t be the “revolving door” house. We split custody, which I assumed would make it easier for me to kill the loneliness. But I immediately plunged myself into finding another partner. I came close once or twice, in the form of intense rebounds.

There was the Musician, a gentle man with the loveliest voice, who tried to get my son to eat salads. We made it almost ten months.

So far, none of them have been the right fit for either of us.

Thaddeus was born without his right hand. He’s different. Special needs. On IEP reports and insurance forms and checks from the state, he’s permanently disabled. A condition that can never be fixed.

Aren’t we all screwed up, said the Water Park Designer.

In the world of single motherhood, there isn’t a lot of time for relationships. It’s like trying to watch two TV shows at once and keep up with each plot. How can I possibly come home after a full day of work, medical appointments, occupational therapy, park playdates, grad school, and cook meals for my kid and for someone else, cuddle with a lover, make meaningful conversations, and have sex?

For dinner tonight: quesadillas, just the two of us. Thaddeus practices holding a cup between his stub and his good arm. He paces the kitchen while I assemble the first quesadilla.

“Only cheese?” He asks.

I nod and flip the tortilla. “Plain and simple, how you like it.”

Thaddeus repeats it in a sing-song voice. “Plain and simple.”

I dated the sure cases of quick implosion. Much older men, men who didn’t want kids (“they impede vacations”), ex-boyfriends passing through town, the newly widowed who bawled in my arms, the separated husbands–still angry and lost–the men who just needed a good preening and a road map to get them back on their way, away from me.

The terms “amelia,” “anomaly,” and even limb “difference” sound much more pleasing than the word “disabled.” But I can’t help use it all the time. It’s like a red light in the intersection of a sentence. It has meaning, it has consequence. People just stop and nod. They don’t need me to explain much more.

There’s a chance it was genetic. I remember how, after Thaddeus’ diagnosis, his father and I held our hands together in the ultrasound office, scooting closer, studying each other’s palms and fingerprints for the first time.

I shuffle spiders out of corners, finish client reports, fold another load of laundry, repaint the flaked white trim long into the night. In the morning, the Spiderman lunchbox sits flap-open on the counter. Jar of peanut butter. Clean knife. At 7:10 am every morning I make his lunches. The man who spent the night is already gone. He didn’t even know there was a second bedroom, door closed. The backpack is stuffed, the prosthesis is carried or worn, and through the car window, I watch my son blow me a big, public kiss as the kids rush around him to beat the class bell. On the weeks when Thaddeus is at his father’s house, I sit on my back stoop alone, overlooking the garden, and watch the cardinals burrow themselves hungrily into sunflower heads. I shower and go to work.

This past autumn, on a five-day romp through Boston, I met a man. Perfect on paper. Handsome and funny, he bought me a beer before a Red Sox game and he fed me oysters afterward. I flew back to North Carolina, but we stayed in touch. Made plans. Direct flights and long weekends. I met his parents for Christmas dinner. We lounged like cats—smart, mature, romantically-compatible—on the sun-drenched couch of his living room. Each time I would come home to Thaddeus, refreshed and focused. The Boston Engineer made me feel beautiful, we texted excitedly about the latest TV episode we watched, and he even laughed at my funny stories about my son’s antics. We didn’t talk about Thaddeus’ disability. We talked about everything else.

He was 900 miles away, which, I figured, would give me plenty of time to fall in love with him and warm up to the idea that I could slowly bring two special men together in my life. After years of flitting away so quickly, this time–I told myself–I would stick around because I could. No pressure to jump just yet. It was going to happen. After I opened my heart to this man, I would finally have a normal triangle family with love and acceptance.

“Will I ever grow a hand?” Thaddeus asks.

He has crawled into my bed again at 5am, shaking off a bad dream. He traces my face with his stump. His eyes are big, the shade of blue that makes you feel like you’re sailing paper boats on an endless day. The first girl to break his heart—what will she look like? Will she let him down easy as she can? Will she have his things already packed?

“You won’t grow a hand,” I tell him, and hold him so he’ll fall back asleep. “But I have extras. I can help you whenever you want.”

One afternoon, I was on the phone with a friend. My relationship with The Engineer had just ended on an amicable yet bittersweet note. The distance is just too much, he said. It’s not fair to either of us. I had cried a lot more than I expected.

After consoling me about The Engineer, my friend and I talked about what it was like to raise our sons. At one point, we started talking about Thaddeus’s disability, what teenage life might be for him. I tried to spin the positive as I always had, going on and on about prom and guitar lessons and driving the car.

“But you can’t know that,” my friend said. “None of can know exactly what Thaddeus is going through. You’ll never be inside his head. No matter how close you are to him, you’re not him. You have all your parts of yourself.”

The first girl to break Thaddeus’ heart probably won’t know what she’s doing. She’ll appear more fragile than him. Maybe it will have nothing to do with the fact that he can’t tie his own shoes or cut a steak, or that she is tired of standing on one side of his body, the only one with the fingers that interlock with hers.

Lowering myself onto the couch, I stared at the coffee table in silence.

“Hey,” my friend said over the line. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Still here.”

We talked a bit more, then hung up. I sat and contemplated my friend’s words. Still here. It dawned on me that not once had I ever used the phrase me time, it was always non-mommy time…a worn groove of a joke among my friends. Not once had I left the word mother out of the description of myself. Resumes, social media, cocktail parties. My identity as the mother of a disabled child floated around everywhere.

When I had found out I was pregnant, my sister had said, “This is the best and longest companion you’ll probably have.”

The way she blurted it out, like it wasn’t coming from her but from somewhere else we couldn’t possibly imagine, and why she was saying that a tiny bean of a something growing inside me was going to be a better person than my husband didn’t make an ounce of sense.

Will I ever fall in love and be able to hold it? I’m scared. I’m scared that the answer may be no in the end, so I guess I should just say, I don’t know.

What I do know is right now we have tee-ball practice.

Thaddeus and I walk a few blocks to the recreation field, I’m lugging the teeball set, he’s skipping along and whistles while I set it up. Try-outs will be here in a month and I want him to have a fighting chance. We practice throwing and catching with a trick of flipping the glove from hand to underarm; we do rolls, pop-ups. Then batting.

My son swings and connects, it’s not the satisfying crack of a wooden bat but a THUMP of two plastic toys, and the ball whizzes past my head with startling ferocity. “Okay, now you run!” I yell. He hesitates. “Run!”

He drops the bat and throws his all into a sprint, rounding first, then second and third, reaching home. But he doesn’t stop. He runs another lap, pumping his fists, his stump and his full hand blurry with speed. He runs another. As he circles, his face is lit up. He’s laughing. I tell him to keep going, heck, we’ve got all day. I stand on the pitcher’s mound, and for a moment I wonder what it would be like to see a third person in this field, someone on the horizon, holding the plastic ball in their hands, and what it would be like if I could wave them infield, my arm moving in a way that already felt warm and familiar, gesturing for them to come closer.

- Catherine Campbell’s stories appear in Arcadia, Atticus Review, [PANK], Fwriction Review, Drunken Boat, Prick of the Spindle, and other journals. She was recently shortlisted for the Masters Review and nominated for the Pushcart Prize. http://www.catherinejcampbell.com

Kyushu

On the shore near the quayside, the water churned. The ferry was no longer running. Inside the car, I studied Sgt. Millspaugh’s face as he fiddled with the radio. One Japanese station after another played “I Want to Hold Your Hand” until finally, a static-distorted FEN broadcaster’s voice reported:

A typhoon passed over Okinawa last night. Torrential rains set off landslides killing 48. Power lines are expected to be down on Kyushu after 2300 hours. All military personnel are on alert and dependents confined to quarters . . . On a wider scope, there are unconfirmed reports that U.S. planes attacked North Vietnamese patrol boats in the Gulf of Tonkin today.

Sgt. Millspaugh let out a deep sigh. “Well, kiddo, looks like we’d better outrun this storm. Don’t worry, I promise to get you back to the base in time for your surprise birthday party.”

I was thirteen. Up until then I had not been afraid of many things. I had been on a swim team since I was nine and was teaching Sgt. Millspaugh’s two kids to swim. I was their favorite babysitter, so when Sgt. Millspaugh’s wife decided to take the children to her parents’ home for Obon, I was invited for the adventure.

Sgt. Millspaugh had driven down a week ago. The plan was to put me on a train back to the base while the family spent another week with the grandparents. And then it began to rain.

***

Using the narrow winding coast highway, we skirted Kinko Bay. The vehicle swayed on its shocks as the typhoon squalled ashore, washing debris up on the pavement. Sgt. Millspaugh navigated around rocks and pot holes. The car jounced and pounded. Then two successive waves engulfed it and the engine died.

“Yoko, take the wheel.”

Sgt. Millspaugh leapt from the car to keep it from backsliding into the sea. I flung open my door and landed in water that took me to my knees. Lightning flashed, and I got a brief glimpse of Sgt. Millspaugh’s hands cupped like a megaphone, but his voice was lost in the storm. He bent forward and began pushing the car. I pushed too. I stumbled over the unstable bottom. I trudged through deep sand, intent on pushing the car onto what was left of the asphalt. Salt water stung my eyes, and I swallowed a gulp as a wave slammed me against the rear bumper.

My heart beating like a kettledrum, I was consumed with a nightmarish fear that the next wave would carry us out to sea. I felt myself being dragged back, and for an instant I was tempted to let it take me. Then the engine started and the car lurched forward, leaving me straddling a large rock and Sgt. Millspaugh gone. A second later he reappeared, eyes wild like a drowning man. Adrenaline surging through my exhausted body, I grabbed one end of a tree limb and extended it to Sgt. Millspaugh. I hung on with more strength than I ever knew I had. Finally, he clambered onto the rock, and we scrambled up an embankment. Crouched before the force of the wind, my hair plastered to my head, the wind shoved me across the pavement. Sgt. Millspaugh opened the car door, and I fell inside shivering. Huddled together with the children in the back seat my teeth chattered until I clenched my jaw.

We had driven for only a few minutes when Sgt. Millspaugh put the car in park and yelled at me.

“Give me your overnight case.”

He rummaged through it until he came up with my bar of Lifebuoy soap. He thrust a flashlight into my hands and once again we were out in the storm. Under the car I aimed the light where he pointed. I smelled gasoline. A moment later, I watched as Sgt. Millspaugh drug the soap across a tiny hole in the gas tank several times. After inspecting it with the flashlight, he gestured to get back in the car.

“That ought to take care of it until we get some fuel tank sealant.”

We rode silently, engulfed in the noise of the storm for another hour. The children fell asleep, but I could not. I kept wondering how long before the gasoline would leak again. It was after midnight before we reached a small village in the mountains. Sgt. Millspaugh parked under a sheet-metal awning that ran alongside a gas station. He rested his head and arms on the steering wheel and began to shake all over. I wanted to thank him for saving our lives, but I couldn’t form the words. A moment later he cleared his throat and turned to look at me. “You know, kiddo . . . I can’t swim.”

He turned forward, leaned his head to one side and fell asleep like I’d seen so many G.I.s do. As he snored, I thought, I’ll never be able to sleep like that. My thoughts turned to the grandparents in their matchstick house in Shinjo. Had they survived? My own family didn’t yet know I had survived.

***

And then it was dawn and a Japanese station attendant was tapping on the windshield. I rubbed my eyes; the lids felt dry and gritty. The sky was turning apricot and smoke gray as light flooded into the world, and I realized I was thirsty. Sgt. Millspaugh looked scruffy with his day’s growth of stubble.

We filled our tank and started up a steep mountain; streaks of pink and saffron-yellow appeared overhead. A white mist rose from the valley below.

For hours the drive was beautiful— steep cliffs, gorges, rushing waterfalls, terraced hillsides of tea bushes. Lordly osprey glided lazily overhead inspecting our progress home.

- Nancy Ryan Keeling is the author of Estrogen Power, a full-length collection of poetry. Her short stories have been published in numerous journals. Her art and photography has been exhibited in Texas museums.

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Submission Period Closed for Twenty-Eighth Issue http://damselflypress.net/editorial/submission-period-closed-for-twenty-seventh-issue/ http://damselflypress.net/editorial/submission-period-closed-for-twenty-seventh-issue/#comments Mon, 16 Jun 2014 00:55:22 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=620 The submission period for the twenty-eighth issue of damselfly press is now closed. Look for the issue July 15, 2014.

As always, thank you to our submitters.

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Publication of Twenty-Sixth and Twenty-Seventh Issues and Call for Themed Submissions http://damselflypress.net/editorial/publication-of-twenty-sixth-and-twenty-seventh-issues-and-call-for-themed-submissions/ http://damselflypress.net/editorial/publication-of-twenty-sixth-and-twenty-seventh-issues-and-call-for-themed-submissions/#comments Mon, 14 Apr 2014 17:44:56 +0000 Jennifer http://damselflypress.net/?p=610 We are pleased to present our first double-feature for your reading pleasure. We received an amazing amount of submissions for this issue. We are so happy our journal continues to resonate with women of diverse backgrounds. This issue highlights damselfly press’s mission: the celebration of talented emerging women writers whose work thoughtfully examines their unique, yet universal, experience.

We are also delighted to announce the publication of No Matter the Wreckage (Write Bloody Publishing, 2014) by Sarah Kay, whose poem “Witness” first appeared in the ninth issue of damselfly press. For more information, please visit kaysarahsera.com

For our themed twenty-eighth issue, available July15th, 2014, we would like to commemorate the men in our lives from our husbands, partners, brothers, to fathers, sons, and friends. If you’d like to submit, please first visit our guidelines section and send us your submission by June 15th, 2014.

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