The Bookends Review

Slowly
savoring each bite,
each page,
each chapter,
each paragraph.
Chew it thoughtfully,
carefully,
let the words sink,
deeply,
treasure them,
they are priceless,
and be grateful
for such contact
with another mind –
communion
with a kindred soul;
you are enriched
and continue on.

– Duane L. Herrmann…

...continue reading

2 a.m. is the hour of malcontent. The restless lie afraid of tomorrow, and the wide-awake try to bury the past.

Misha shifted her legs so she could wipe off their slick sweat on the bedsheet. The gentle whirr of the ceiling fan did little to assuage the relentless heat of Indian summer. She kept her eyes shut tight in a fruitless attempt to lure sleep, but her mind threw blank sheet after blank sheet for her thoughts to scribble on.

A grinding noise punctured her ears: the crunch of hard, white enamel scraping against itself from inside her husband’s mouth. Karim was facing away from her, and she knew he was dreaming. She poked her finger between his shoulder blades. A grunt, a sharp intake of breath, and a mumbled, “Sorry.…

...continue reading

On the first day, it came for my abdomen, that sharp pain like the point of a knife, teasing the edges of my pelvis. The type of pain that makes you weep, less from the hurt, and more from the attack deep in the pit, in the core of your body.

And the doctor smiled.

“All part of being a woman, I’m afraid.”

“Or someone with a uterus,” I corrected.

He nodded in that sympathetic way you nod when your grandmother tells you she just saw her childhood friend, the one who’s been dead for decades.

“Of course. In any case, there’s not much we can do except keep an eye on it. Take some ibuprofen and see if that helps.”

I cradled my stomach, pressing my hand to my lower belly as I listened to words about how complicated my body was for having a womb, a piece of faulty machinery that no one could ever seem to troubleshoot correctly, an unfortunate bit of wiring that I would have done better had I been born without it.…

...continue reading

Mom grows stalagmites.
They’re made of toothpaste.
Drips from her cavern each morning
landing not quite into the bowl.
The basin isn’t out of reach,
but she’s forgotten to extend.
Or to spit. Just drip.
Mom used to be the neat one.
I was the messy one.
The eggshell stalagmite
matches the eggshell counter,
her myopic eyes seldom notices
the heightening mound.
It repulses my senses.
I don’t rush its removal
knowing it’ll eventually be missed.

– Dara Kalima…

...continue reading

My mother died in the early minutes of March 21, 2012, just as spring was coming to its fullest expression in Birmingham, Alabama, the city where she was born, married, and had her children, and where she had lived her entire life. The foliage was a promising shade of bright green. The suburban lawns were visions lined with banks of azaleas in full bloom. The year was still young; as yet, the sun’s heat had no weight to it.

On March 9, she was diagnosed with bone cancer. How long she had had the bone cancer, her doctor would not suppose. What was known was that the bone cancer was a metastasis from breast cancer she had survived fourteen years ago. For the past twelve years, she had been cancer-free, but, as it was explained, breast cancer is sneaky and insidious and doesn’t give up easily.…

...continue reading

A title:
when it comes  
the poem will come too.  
Where does he look?  
Inside?  
Outside?  
All the world around?  
Searching  
for a title,  
for a theme.  
Desire is present  
but no direction.  
A poet in search of a title  
is a sad, pathetic thing. 
Does he search  
through ancient tomes?  
Or current fads?  
Or some time in between?


dlh…

– Duane L. Herrmann…

...continue reading

We funneled independently through the horde of mouth-breathers, school bell releasing us from monotonous lessons we’d mastered before the classes even began. Like a well-tuned machine we threaded expediently and stepped lightly, dodging shoulder throwing jocks and snickering goths and jazz handing theater kids. Our destination awaited us, a physical and mental safe haven: Mr. Pruitt’s classroom. Chess club.

We arrived within seconds of each other, chemistry posters on the wall welcoming us and promising a mental workout. After the day we’d all had, like every other day in public school, it was a relief. Immediately we got to work setting up the game. Kevin tossed three vinyl chessboards on the tables, unrolling them and checking for wrinkles. Ian laid out the clocks. David dropped bags of white and black pieces on each board.…

...continue reading