The Bookends Review

I don’t know flowers
so I couldn’t tell you their names
but I passed a cluster of them
on the way to work:

they were light purple long thin buds.
maybe some kind of lavender?  
I don’t know

but since the published poets
were always banging on about flowers
I thought, what the hell
let’s see what all the fuss is about
and I bent down
to have a sniff:

I didn’t like them.…

...continue reading

           “Pretty face,” the guard says.

            I wipe away some sweat-lined dirt, smile.

            “Occupation?”

            “Nurse.”

            He squints, doubts.

            “Drugs?”

            I shake my head. He doesn’t want what I have – the sleeping pills, marijuana. He wants antibiotics. He has the disease. His hat and collar hide it. What do I care? We are all going to get sick, had all gotten sick, will always be sick.

            “Papers?”

            I hand him the water damaged passbook.

            If he opens it, he’ll mostly see blossoms and blotches. On one page, there may be enough stamp to reveal a cross. The picture will show just shoulders and a neck. The face is white space.

            The train sounds its whistle, bell. Then the wheels clickety, clickety, clack.…

...continue reading

You used to leave your shoes beside the doorway, letting the season drip off onto the carpet. Now, you walk them off wherever you please, one foot out, one foot in. Sometimes, you grab the wrong shoe out the door, so you walk around mis-matched. You used to bring home honey on Saturdays. A treat from nature. You used to cradle my body to your chest and kiss the back of my earlobe. You used to pull quarters from behind my ears. It’s magic. Now, my ears are un- kissed and magicless. You used to try and bake cupcakes, but you never read the directions, so they were always very dry, and burnt. We would sit with a can of icing and a bottle of wine, eating the cupcakes.…

...continue reading

It should not be so difficult to fall madly in love

My parents met on the day of their wedding, my mother with hands covered in henna and dressed in a red sari, and my father in a white sherwani and a small, nervous smile. I came soon after, during a time where the house was still quiet and foreign, during a time where “we” didn’t exist and it was just “me and mom” and “me and dad.” I could watch my parents learn to love each other. I could observe careless hands turn gentle, harsh voices turn soft, quick glances turn long.

My brother was born five years after me. In some ways, he’s luckier than I am. He was raised by hearts swollen with love, laughter caressing his skin like kisses.…

...continue reading

– Edward Lee…

...continue reading

I open my eyes very slowly, as if emerging from a storm cellar after the tornado. A cluster of people peers down at me. A young woman carefully tucks her purse beneath my head. I see her lips are moving and am reminded of the adult voices in a Peanuts cartoon. I try to laugh but this alarms the crowd gathered around me. The young woman shakes her head and gently pushes my chest to keep me supine. With closed eyes, the deprivation of sight enhances my hearing. Children laughing, rhythmic chanting from the Hari Krishnas, the chug of a small train. Central Park.

I remember now, standing in line to buy a lemonade. A handsome young man talking. Flattered. It’s been so long since a man talked to me.…

...continue reading

1.
Till the end (there is no end)

2.
Scores of flying scissors cutting the air
above the rooftops and cathedral

3.
She is so much younger

4.
They leave (hidden behind the column her friend
had been only an audio and purse). We stay
and take their place (watching, sipping
our beers, crunching our snacks)

5.
The burning fish is dying a slow death behind the cathedral.
A last gasp of orange and black has taken the scissors
and the fish. Only the cathedral remains, drinking
imperfectly (perfectly) from the absent
moon

– R L Swihart…

...continue reading