Chagrin River Review Issue 1 Read online

  He looked at the young family standing there all together.

  “There’s nothing physically wrong with him at all,” the doctor said without parsing words.

  Phil stood there dumbfounded.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him at all?” he asked.

  “No,” the doctor said. His blue eyes looked down at the kitchen floor, and it looked as though the floor might swallow him whole if he did not speak. “He’s perfectly okay.”

  “Then why won’t he eat? His temperature? Did we make him?— You know?” Brenda asked.

  Doctor Belliard shook his head no.

  “It’s like when you’re mother tells you: if you eat your vegetables you’ll live a long life!” the doctor said very sarcastic. He paused, and then said: “The boy told me he wanted to jump off his roof and kill himself.”

  Phil shrugged his shoulders: “Why in the world would he do that?”

  Doctor Belliard let out an exhausted breath. “So he could be with his dog up in heaven,” he told them. “So I had no choice but to tell him the truth.”

  Phil looked over at his wife who was holding their son in her arms. He looked at the doctor standing in his kitchen and then out of the living room window at the ice that was starting to melt along the edges of the pond. He could still make out where the dog had fallen through. Now there was just a hole there, where it had been cut in a square to get him out; and the opal color of the sky was reflecting blue on that one small spot atop the pond, where it was shining down and holding itself there even if it were only for another second.

  Mercedes Lawry

  Point of Departure

  under the wet song of November

  dark as a blood spot,

  no hovering of wing, great

  sacks of gray in the sky

  as all fury at stolen hope

  startles the last silence

  of a world where language

  has escaped, where shadows

  lie against the ground

  like small deaths,

  the cry of a lone hawk

  shears the crush of silence

  like the intake of breath

  at the point of departure

  Curious Joys

  Pardon the furniture arranged to perfection,

  interior mirror of calculated space

  with horizontal mimicking the serene

  and vertical, an anchor of self in nothing.

  Guarded, she steps and sits, lifts

  and exhales, measuring her accountability.

  How close are the floodwaters?

  Wind at window and darkness on its way.

  She will not wither or plead.

  Place is how her soul endures, natural disasters

  kept at arm’s length with a glib phrase.

  Her own caustic journey seeps across the floor.

  Marking shadows, she feels a gladness,

  slow transformation of the pale greens

  sufficient as the hours and her own instinct to inhabit.

  Use Your Words

  Pause, end of pause.

  Attempt at language.

  Breathe shallow, breathe deep.

  Disturbance, as if a page

  had been torn from a book.

  Ruthless, this theft

  and those helping with the getaway,

  those sentence demons

  licking at the punctuation.

  Take sound, swallow meaning.

  Even if the rain is scribbling

  at the window, the readers

  will not look up.

  Clues on the shelves,

  string them together

  and slip them into your bones.

  Glean story from absence.

  Word, no word, all words

  in hazardous commotion.

  A Small Bravery

  The ragged wind stirs slightly.

  No indication of the lost returned.

  Words break apart, a uselessness of sound, then silence.

  This too is the great death

  mocking what we know.

  Salt and roses, twigs and clay.

  The headiness of a river down a mountain,

  that cold water a force and loud.

  What travels on the earth marks an absence.

  We are elusive and might deserve forgiveness.

  Whether we pause among the trees or continue

  weeping into the morning.

  Barbara Brooks

  B Heatr

  He is here again, his white van

  and a butterscotch light for warnings.

  He has come to see the heat pump. Yesterday

  he came twice. Maybe he needed a part.

  He kneels by the metal lungs

  of the heat pump, doesn’t disturb

  the wood thrush singing its E-OH-LAY. Or the wrens

  ferrying insects to the nest in the dryer vent.

  Lifting the panel, he kneels

  in front, an altar of temperature.

  I can’t see what he is doing,

  spring leaves block my view.

  He has removed the pump’s cover.

  It is sitting in the drive. I didn’t see him

  bring a new one, besides he is alone.

  A new one is too heavy for one to carry.

  It’s 2 pm, he is packing up. He gets out,

  monkeys with the For Sale sign

  at the end of the drive.

  Puts it in his truck.

  The house has been empty for a year,

  its previous owners gone north.

  On the deck, I listen, a yellow-throated warbler,

  it will be leaving soon.

 

  On Productivity

  The Holsteins salt and pepper

  spring-green grass. It’s the early

  morning cud chewing, they rest

  under the warming

  sun.

  Heat waves

  begin

  to shimmer

  the pavement

  as I drive

  to evaluate

  Ms. Smith.

  Drop by drop, the cows’ udders swell.

  Milk bags sway between their legs.

  Time to enter the milking shed. Each tag read,

  logged into the record, the day’s production

  tallied.

  Daily, a computer

  calculates

  my quota,

  need

  twenty-eight

  visits.

  Number 50 is dropping off,

  probably due to age. An old milk cow

  isn’t much good for anything

  except dog food.

  William Greenway

  Chagrin Falls, Memorial Day

  If there were no dead

  we would create them,

  we-walking-by-the-river-named-

  for-failure, hands full of each

  other, custard, balloons, see them

  before us stratified, water pouring over

  a blessing too late, watch steps down

  slick rock, every second maybe an edge.

  Chagrin falls, yes, but does it

  rise again, like spray, like

  plasma shuddering free, and like winter

  breath into night sky, does it gell

  in cold space? Lovers add

  a germ that flies a comet's tail,

  and a yolk begins to pulse in endless dark,

  iambic, like a heart of hope and fear.

  A Feeling’s Like a Face

  A feeling’s like a face

  that fades with time from the mind

  and memory can’t replace

  the frame of empty space

  where a lover’s eyes once shined,

  and a feeling’s like a face.

  We remember every place

  where face and feeling chimed

  but memory can’t replace

  the first nor final fierce embracer />
  when soul and body twined

  for a feeling’s like a face

  that other, later loves erase

  what once was so defined

  and memory can’t replace

  what time and loneliness deface

  when love and loveliness decline,

  for a feeling’s like a face

  that memory can’t replace.

  Blind Hearing Ear Dog

  I try, by pat and paw, to translate

  siren shriek, smoke alarm, warning

  jingle of the ice cream truck,

  but all he really wants to hear

  is what I get unwanted all the time:

  aren’t you cute, what a sweetie,

  though how would I convey such pap?

  Rub of fur, nip, lick, or nuzzle?

  Just because I can’t see what he sees—

  colors, the ray-shot ocean depths,

  maybe even angels—

  he feels superior.

  But deaf as a whole range-line of fence posts,

  he’ll never know what I hear:

  strange words that sift down from other worlds,

  bat squeak, hawk whistle, mouse rustle,

  the scrape and lisp of fallen leaves,

  and the sudden sounds of hidden things

  like the flap and whisper of white wings.

 

  On Buying a Watch Online for My Birthday

  I’ve tried to live with the digitals,

  those cyber soldiers who claim

  to be advancing, goose-stepping

  toward some future place,

  but really standing still, mute

  beefeaters at the palace gate.

  I prefer hands

  moving almost imperceptibly,

  creeping up on whatever’s waiting.

  An illusion, sure, but not so

  abstract, not ciphers beamed

  by satellite,

  but figures on a real road

  (albeit round) you get to trail

  on the way to what

  lies ahead, where

  the movement on your wrist,

  literal or analogous,

  will continue without you,

  morphing or marching

  moment to moment,

  surviving your cells

  and the ticking of your doomed heart

  toward some zenith, high noon

  or midnight

  that tolls to tell,

  your time is now.

 

  Late Show, All Hallows

  The whole problem of life is to become transparent to transcendence.

  —Karlfield Durckheim

  On almost every channel

  someone is weeping,

  about a mother, a sister, a wife,

  a life, a cancer.

  Is there no other fear on tonight

  outside of ourselves?

  Let’s see: murder. Gangsters. Crime

  scene. Intervention. Murder.

  Not even monsters, Godzillas

  frozen at the bottom of the world

  that thaw when something radioactive

  tumbles off a ship, blows up,

  slips off a sandy shore

  into a black lagoon.

  No mad doctor whipping up

  something nasty with a teaspoon

  of toxicity, a dash of lightning,

  a soupçon of rotting flesh.

  Okay, just more metaphors

  for the human condition, I get it.

  Too bad we can’t project a little better,

  get whatever gnaws away at our innards

  out, give it a gentle face, show it on

  some screen other than the strung-up,

  wrinkled bedsheet of our lives.

  Or flip to The Transparency Channel

  showing what might be on the other side,

  or at least could have been if we’d sprung

  for the higher tier, instead of

  reruns of series seven of

  What We’ve Settled For,

  starring Fur and Fangs,

  wearing the masks of our reflections.

  Sean Forbes

  Haiku

  Winters in Southside Jamaica, Queens

  1

  My grandmother praised

  the deep silence of winter:

  drug deals forced indoors.

  2

  No summer drive-bys

  or innocent neighbors lost

  to dull black semis.

  3

  We live on a block

  of ten row houses, can hear

  every goddamn sound.

  4

  Eight in the morning.

  My boots should crunch snow instead

  of pink topped crack vials.

  5

  Hey, yo, curly top!

  You gotta sister? Bet she’ll

  gimme some fine trim.

  6

  Grandma prays for me

  to fail the ghetto before

  puberty begins.

  7

  Damon approaches

  me. Asks if I want to make

  a large roll of cash.

  8

  Christmas Eve. Best friend

  shot dead. Closed casket. Barely

  a face left on him.

  9

  Morning, purple sky.

  Two drug dealers escort Mom

  to the train station.

  10

  Damon slams me up

  against a brick wall. Whispers

  he likes boys my size.

  11

  Boy, you betta get

  your hide home. Your Grandmama

  worried sick ‘bout you.

  12

  Grandma delivers

  plates of ackee and codfish

  to every drug house.

  13

  Spark of a fired gun

  in cold night air. Damon holds

  my trembling right hand.

  14

  Grandpa spends every

  winter with his lover in

  Providencia.

  15

  Neighbors wonder why

  we’ve never been robbed, even

  though Grandpa’s not here.

  16

  Undercover cop

  busts Damon. Twenty to life,

  that’s the word at church.

  17

  She dreams he takes his

  woman to secret islands

  deep beneath the sea.

  18

  Grandma holds a lunch.

  Tells neighbors to befriend those

  kids they fear the most.

  19

  The blare of sirens,

  helicopter high above.

  Sounds I heard all night.

  David Oestreich

  Upon Finding a Dead Turkey

  Brother, you are fallen, wrecked, but

  worth your weight in sparrows

  to the flies

  that thrill your final flight

  toward wickerwork of quill and bone.

  Shrouded now by Queen Anne’s Lace,

  the shade of vultures

  wreathes your head

  (beaded red and blue in death as life).

  Your chestnut fan and soot brown maille

  hang limp, askew,

  and trailing remnants

  of a wing suggest coyote’s tracks.

  Who was ever grateful for you that is not

  grateful now?

  And who will

  note your loss but has not found you yet?

  Or who will say one prayer for us?

  Beacon at Marblehead, Ohio

  Beneath the lamp room; past the wires,

  the cans of kerosene; past steps still bearing

  whale-oil stains; outside the weathered door

  and window pane; beyond the brick and stucco—

  upon the relic shore (where no plaq
ue frames

  a tidy paragraph) I kneel and read the bank

  of histories, written in shell ridges and the raised

  veins of once green leaves, now bound in sediment.

  By these light marks, set in this limestone shelf

  before the engineer carved his first blocks,

  my gaze may reach beyond this rocky coast,

  these bare islands, to the obscurity of ages.

  After the Fact

 

  Something was wrong—that gear

  was missing and I was out back of the barn

  where we keep the plow blade and the stuffed

  manatee that sings Kissimmee, Kissimmee

  come on and kiss-a-me when you pull

  the lever on its back—anyway I’d gone out there

  because without that gear your love would

  never come back around and pulling

  that lever is no fun without you—

  I was one big reminiscence of Kissimmee

  ransacking bags of old clothes, cake toppers,

  programs from the symphony, and pictures of you

  the night of your solo up in Toledo—weird

  where you’d go after that—never saying

  bonne nuit when you left to remind me

  the night is a lady or waking me up when

  you came home—just sleeping in street clothes

  out in the old Lay-Z-boy—that’s back here too

  under a pile of aquariums, beer cans, and bath towels—

  a motel for anoles like the ones we kept finding

  on the wall in our room that night in Kissimmee—

  but that gear wouldn’t be under all that old crap—

  and now I’m starting to cry because I’m starting to think

  that the gear isn’t there and you’ll never come back

  much less will you kiss-a-me or ever remind me

  that men mistook mammals for mermaids and

  soon I’ll be blubbering my grizzled chin flapping

  like a manatee’s mandible mouthing the words

  to some stupid song only tourists have heard

  down in Kissimmee baby oh kiss-a-me baby oh baby

  what happened in Kissimmee?

  Just Another Blueeyed Boy

  Who’d left the windows open that night?

  Thirty-one degrees that darkest hour

  and frost on all the picture frames. At dawn,

  the chill of vodka shouted as loudly as it had

  before we stalked sullenly to bed.