The Bookends Review

– Jeff Bien…

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Back then, the seller told me that it’s made
of a buffalo’s horn, (didn’t I know
then that it wasn’t a cool idea?) and would
last a hundred years or more (though I
didn’t get the connection). Its base came off
in five months, and I had to fix it on
a block of wood. The two carved birds, with
intricate details, eyelids and all,
could have elevated it to a pure work of art
but for their perch, a stunted tree branch
that looks like a cross between an uninspiring
schistose structure and concrete. I still like
to look at the birds when I wake up, to
reflect on their gaze upwards, as if they’re
looking eternally at a taller tree branch, or
for some rain that falls slanted in the dry wind
to rekindle a horn that’s not dead yet
in their core, breathing a glow to those eyes

– Jose Varghese

Author’s Note: My poems are inspired by the sensory and emotional experiences of individuals who negotiate the political and ideological spaces they live in.…

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                                                                                    Take the plunge
                        Head first into the rich lanolin
                                    Twenty gallon bags of many wools, waiting

                        The three day workshop:
                                    A roomful of women and fleece
                                                Spinning wheels set, a teacher from New Zealand

                        To craft woolen and worsted
                                    Short draft, long draft, twists to
                                                Crimp and staple—
                        The wool cards are plied, combs straightened and
                                    The ditz comes to play—
                        Cute as a button in horn, center holed for the finishing top—
                                    As fiber is spun on hypnotic wheels
                                                                        Mingled talk and laughter

                        We plunge, hands first into the skeins of warm water
                                                                                    Pull out strands of wet yarn
                                                Into the outdoors, draped O’s on the bushes
                                    A calligraphy of branch to weave

– Elaine Verdill…

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Dear new homeowner,

(Do you know that homeowner is the only instance of the word meow in the dictionary that doesn’t relate to the cat noise.)

Welcome to 163 Oak Street. Please enjoy this bottle of wine and a $50 gift certificate to Luigi’s down the street. The pizza from there is just okay, but it’s fast and cheap and it will do for the average Thursday evening dinner when your whole family has a project or meeting due the next day and everyone is cranky as hell about it.

I think you should be able to leave gifts for the people who replace you when you move. If houses had souls (and who knows, maybe they do) the gifts would ease the transition between occupants.…

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– George L Stein …

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Kevin has cut his hand, and it’s really bleeding, pooling into the sink as the water cascades onto his fingers from the kitchen faucet. He’s not panicked though, it’s just stinging as he holds it underneath the spout; the rapids rush, masking the sides of his fingers, and he can barely see the wound, just the streaks of red that ruddle the water. It’s rather mesmerizing though, watching the water pass, millions of harmonized droplets falling at once, synchronizing as it pours, and Kevin forgets he’s even wounded, for a moment.

Gazing at the hand soap dispenser that sits on the edge of the sink, Kevin fixates on the buoyant sun sticker affixed to the front of the bottle inscribed with  “Antibacterial” in bubble letters; the first three letters darkened with dampness, making “bacterial” most discernible; he notices its corner curled, peeling from moisture until his focus blurs, and for some reason, he can feel the sunlight from the SoftSoap label tingling down his neck.…

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“Ahyeon-dong is a motherless neighborhood,” Mother says as she looks out the narrow window of our banjiha.^[1] Half-underground, we can just make out the legs of a group of guys wobbling around and spitting on the street. One guy drops his cigarette, stomping on it like he’s dancing.

“Go on up to the store,” Mother says firmly. “Make sure everything’s okay up there.”

From my mattress, I run up the staircase crammed right next to me. Within moments, I’m standing behind the counter at Paddy-Go, where I stumble to find the light switch hidden behind the mini-microwave we use for our instant rice on weekday mornings. But today’s Saturday, so we’re in less of a rush, especially since we don’t have the usual herd of mothers stumbling in at five AM to buy last-minute school lunch items for their children.…

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