The Bookends Review

because
there are less universes than clouds
less states to inhabit
than to be dissipated
you have never been in love with 
first encounters mainly
that they did only
mean first encounters
the thrill of that somehow swirling
what had become of your heart
before you realize
are you willing to descend 
in the evening I will make you
special

– Ann Huang…

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We tour southern battlefields
stake our tents on Outer Banks,
slap mosquitoes, chase the trucks
spraying clouds of DDT.

Stake our tents on Outer Banks,
lose our glasses in the sand,
sprayed by clouds of DDT,
sunburned faces, scratching fleas.

Lose our glasses in the sand,
dig to China, tide comes in.
Sunburned faces, scratching fleas,
campfire smoke gets in our eyes.

Dig to China, tide goes out,
we hold hands and jump the waves.
Campfire smoke get in our eyes,
hot dogs, ketchup on white bread.

We hold hands and jump the waves,
salty water up our noses,
hot dogs, ketchup on white bread,
torch our marshmallows in the fire.

Salty water up our noses–
don’t talk back, we’ll get the belt.
Torch our marshmallows in the fire,
watermelon, sweet iced tea.…

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“I’m leaving for the day,” Robert shouted into the depths of the big hollowed out tree.

Robert and his wife were doing very well for themselves. These were hard times for squirrels. Some squirrels were sharing a tree with two to three other families. But not Robert and Vanessa. No, it was just the two of them in a big redwood near a large park. That’s right; they were doing so well; they were living park side.

“Don’t forget to pick up an extra acorn! Donny and Faye are coming for dinner!” Vanessa shouted back at her husband. So, with that, Robert was off to work.

Vanessa’s heart always sank a little after she heard her husband scurry down the large redwood. She no longer had a job, and their babies were full grown and long gone.…

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Even if we wake before dawn, we nevertheless
inhabit the dark, still feel that need
to light only a sole lamp,
aware of how much we’re yet in that other
world of sleep which is meant
to make this one right. 
Those who have been up all
night have more to say
than we who recently rolled the
stone from the mouth of our bed, 
but many share rooms with
faces of childhood friends
smiling in fields behind new
houses, breaking through for those
last minutes before the rays of
yesterday are replaced by photons
from this newest return, in the
moments before darkness ceases
to be the vacuum pulling us toward
the heavens and just evaporates.

– Sandra Kolankiewicz…

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Even before I read the poems in Someone You Love is Still Alive, I heard reports from shootings in schools and malls, in nightclubs and the bases of armed forces. I remembered hearing stories from survivors of natural disasters in reports on radio and television. I remembered how buildings like the Twin Towers in New York City fell. I remembered the death of Prince. I remembered the crumbling of the Roman Catholic Church under the sexual abuse claims against priests and bishops. I remembered the death of my dad, the death of my first marriage, the death of a dream that would never be. They were just too painful to remember. I am not sure how to make sense of these events whose presence has become a fixture in my memory.…

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The last day he was upright, I helped my sister
heave his weight. He didn’t make it to the toilet—
hadn’t in weeks—but he insisted. The horrid,

empty smell was wholly new, and broke me.
He’d eaten nothing for days, what was there left
to void? I gagged as it seeped down his bird leg,

then left my sister to the mess. He was still alert
enough to know that I had turned my back,
and he was hurt, though hurting worse in other ways,

he never mentioned it, taking to bed, for good,
shortly after, leaving me to regret what everyone
regrets after death: the way things were when

there was still any chance of fixing things;
the fact that no one tried.

– Katherine Fallon…

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            Soft piano music plays from the parlor as Dahlia hovers in the foyer. Her pink lace jacket is distinctly out of style. Her auburn hair is not ineptly styled, but Poppy is eyeing the white streaks with an affected air.

            “They’re all in the parlor,” Poppy says. “The other ladies are already having their biscoff. It’s fat free,” she adds.

            Dahlia’s shoulders curl forward over her unshapely form. “That sounds wonderful,” she says, eyes darting.

            Poppy exchanges a look with Daisy, who is idling by the door the parlor, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a bottle opener in the other. “You can open it,” she says. Dahlia passes Daisy without looking her in the eye.

            “Give her plenty,” Poppy mouths.…

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