The Bookends Review

Sitting still, waiting to descend 
just a layer of fogged glass 
keeping me from you.

Trees growing on your cheeks,
chin in your palm.
You’re frightened, I know.

Yet the sun splays on the dashboard and
you see the moose, as I do, swimming 
in the pond—black berries along its shore.

Soon, the plane kisses the ground.
Something has left you.

– Preston Eagan…

...continue reading

The Troll on the Bridge

I have been singing the same song in my head for twenty minutes now. It’s not that it’s my favorite song or that I don’t know lyrics to any others. I don’t know why I feel so compelled to sing it, but I do know that it was three minutes and seven seconds long and that its title was five words long. I also knew that if I picked up a rock to examine it, I would have to start the chorus over again because I would be too perplexed on which way the rock should sit to think about the words. North, south, left, or right, either way it wasn’t how it should be situated and….shit. It’s the troll again.     …

...continue reading

I remember which way to go if I can face north
& close my eyes: at home, the Tillmans’ house

was north & stood in for the small dipper, somewhere
below the treeline. East was the city, too small

to light the sky orange or at all, the searchlights
from the airport probing nervously a clouded night,

saying please come home, so good to see you. West
was the back yard, over which my father launched

crude bottle rockets on summer nights, the best ones
making it to the cornfield past the property-line,

& we imagined them arcing over the barn, too,
burying their spent heads in the woods beyond.…

...continue reading

Once upon a time, there were three little pigs. Each of the pigs feared the big bad wolf that would terrorize them by crossing the border from where he lived to where they lived. To protect themselves, the three little pigs formed a committee and paid for a focus group to provide politically correct solutions to their problem about the undocumented wolf.

The first focus group advocated for giving the wolf whatever he wanted because it was not fair that the pigs had so much and the wolf had nothing. The first little pig asked, “Why should I give the wolf everything I worked so hard for, all my life, to acquire?” The head of the focus group denounced the first little pig as a racist and a speaker of “hate speech”.…

...continue reading

I knew from the moment my unholy foot crossed its raised threshold, that Theatre Hall was tormented by something surreal, something unnatural. How I surmised this, so quickly, and yet so certainly, I cannot be sure. It was as clear to me as the Proscenium stage, lit up by a dozen or so overhead spotlights.

Something lingered here, something dead and hollowed out. It did not feel malevolent to me, not vengeful or violent. I was only aware of the overwhelming pressure of hopelessness, of long, insurmountable despair.

My drama professor stood at the front of the room, prattling on about the history of the building, pointing out its architectural subtleties. He spoke with all the enthusiasm of someone impassioned by personal interest. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to invest in the lecture, couldn’t curtail the sinking ache that seemed to have imbedded itself into my chest wall.…

...continue reading

Tomorrow, when the Vulcan god of fire,
Rejects their offerings, she will burn with the rest of the city.

Tomorrow, when the wrath of gods pour into landfills and
The river boils, she will not get far on foot.

Tomorrow, when the walls are breaking and the air is sour with naked fear, she will be one of a thousand deaths, slaughtered under the mass of ash and pumice.

But today, she is alive and with her mother in the markets,
Clutching a stout baby. The sun is shining and they are shopping for the evening meal.

Pausing at the flower stand between the vendors of fishhooks
And cloth, the flower she lifts to her nose smelled sweeter than usual.

– Sarah Huang…

...continue reading

Jasmine won’t stop speaking in a British accent, the vowels extended and muffled like chewing gum. As we climb around Walmart’s posh blue belly, grabbing at lotion on shelves and running our hands across bedazzled clothing, she stays ahead of me. This is one of her favorite pastimes, Jasmine says. Melting away in supermarkets. It’s like a game, peaking around aisles after midnight, buying for the sake of buying. Especially in the summer, supermarkets have an ethereal way about them. An air conditioned liminal space. A playground for the sleepless. We sit across from each other in an aisle full of toys.

Myself: So, who are you?

Jasmine: (checking her phone) I’m twenty. I’m from Texas. I’m a nobody poet. I’m a couple of neurons.

Myself: What do you want to do with your life?…

...continue reading