The Bookends Review

My mother’s patience 
looks like 

a flower bed, 
practiced fingers 

dipping into the earth 
with each seed 

between forefinger 
and thumb. 

Weeks of coaxing 
and water push 

new plants 
into the world, 

blossoms swaying 
in the breeze. …

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I know the wavelength of soft grasses in

eastern winds. Fireflies blink in the

balloon of a sundress, and when I set

the table and forget the napkin, you

capture            and      pin me            as a fraud.

But I know trees sound like oceans

in the shadow of a new moon.

July is fresh bronzed and unconditioned

fed with berries and barbecues, summer

vacations of lasers in the eye and sore

spines, and you dare to question

what    I           am       worth?

It’s July—I am a statue housing

a robin’s nest in my elbow and the warmth

of my parents in my chest.

Taking up space, in debt to field mice

incapable of trapping.

Do not call yourself comfortable to imply

that      I          am       not.

– Leah Skay

…

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Little David—ti Davíd—was late for his own funeral; but you can hardly blame a three-year-old. People shuffled back and forth, antsy to get things moving. We were on the clock. The day, like all days, was hot and cloudless; and since there was no embalming here, the child needed to be buried before sundown. 

The boy had been brought by his father to the only hospital on the Haitian island of La Gonave. It was only open for a few weeks if and when the American doctors could come for their annual mission. That year there was enough of a lull in the nation’s seemingly endless string of turmoil and bad luck that they were able to make the trip. …

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In my living room, near the wall closest to the tiny front hall, there was once a large piece of furniture, wooden and black and heavy, with varying shelf space of multiple heights and widths.  The delivery men, when they were moving it in, hated it because it was immense.  It really was a challenge and they struggled mightily and I felt bad for them but only briefly because I don’t imagine anyone forced them to become movers and, according to some philosopher who was much smarter than me, if you’re living the life you choose, you can’t complain.  Anyway, for a few minutes, the unit was actually stuck in the entranceway and the movers didn’t know what to do.  It just sat at an odd angle, wedged, while they looked at each other and swore. …

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My daughter always looks up.
She’s bored of what we’ve got here on land
even when we’re somewhere nice, beautiful actually.
She lies on the blanket and refuses to look at anything but up.
Our stay at Lake Burns has been simple, well-deserved.
The other kids laugh and cry but my daughter sits quietly.
Jane says I should be grateful for this rare version of motherhood. I miss Jane.

– Lillian Tzanev…

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“Don’t hang up on me, Emily.”

“Why are you calling, Roger?”

Remember, the judge ruling on our divorce recommended we employ a mediator to determine how we’ll divide everything rather than hiring more lawyers.”

“How do we divide the furniture, cut them in half? How do you split the bed, the one we slept in and fucked in for five years?”

“This is not the way to resolve this. Neither of us can afford more legal fees. The judge gave me the names of three mediators, and I checked out all of them. Bernard Holbright is the best choice. He’s a well-recommended, retired judge. I took the liberty of setting up an appointment for next Wednesday.”

She snickered. “You took a lot of liberties with our marriage.”…

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The New York winter chill disappeared when Jean entered the lobby of Maxine Elliott’s Theater, crowded with women. It was Jean’s fourth matinee since November 20th, when The Children’s Hour premiered.

She hadn’t returned for the play, but for the largely female audience, and more to the heart, for the maddening crush she had on one usherette who seated her in the second balcony.

In the last few years, Jean had scoured through journals on sexuality in the public library. Doctors called her condition inverted, depraved, a mistake of nature. Was it any wonder Martha killed herself at the end of The Children’s Hour?

Jean escaped into books, museums, theaters, and music recitals. For a few hours, the stranglehold of her homosexuality vanished into a novel by Pearl Buck, a painting by Matisse, a musical by Cole Porter, or a recital of Gershwin.…

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