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EARTHWORDS THE UNDERGRADUATE LITERARY REVIEW 2008

~~ i--~~ earthwards

Publication Number 28 The University of Iowa Iowa City, Iowa 52242 Copyright © 2008 by earthwords and The University of Iowa All Rights Reserved www.uiowa.edu/~ewords

EARTHWORDS THE UNDERGRADUATE LITERARY REVIEW 2008

~~ JIIIP~1 earthwards

Publication Number 28 The University of Iowa Iowa City, Iowa 52242 Copyright © 2008 by earthwords and The University of Iowa All Rights Reserved www.uiowa.edu/~ewords

2 earthwords

CONTENTS Introduction 3 2007-2008 earthwords Staff 4 From the Editor 5

NON-FICTION Lies I Tell my Housemates 6 Welcome to the Grayslake Aquatic Center 10

FICTION Que es Valor? 16 Red Horse Revelry 34

POETRY Sometimes, while loading... 38 Letter Mter Long Winter, an Old Spring 39 The Story of Yes 40 Life's First Adventure 43

ART Her Side 9 Untitled (by David Zorn) 15 Woman Shopping 32 Rush, Waterfall in the Michigan Upper Peninsula 33 Slime Spoon 36 Untitled (by Hailey Malone) 37 Untitled (by Caitlin Wilp) 42 Who has control? 44 He has control? 45 Who has control of the artist? 46

Artist & Author Biographies 47-48

T

the undergraduate literary review / / J

MISSION STATEMENT earthwords, the undergraduate literary review, strives to showcase the creative works of UI undergraduates in literature and the arts, while providing students the educational experience of producing a literary magazine.

SELECTION PROCESS As in past years, the process for selecting the pieces in earthwords was done on an anonymous basis. All members of the editorial board were given the opportunity to express their opinions and vote. Additionally, they were required to abstain from voting on their own submission or submissions they recognized.

SPECIAL THANKS earthwords would like to extend a special thanks to the following:

The University of Iowa Student Government Dale Fisher and The University of Iowa Art Museum June Severson The University of Iowa Office of Residence Life Tim Blake, Susan Pauley and the University of Iowa Printing Services Hugh Ferrer and Joe Tiefenthaler Zack Gauck, Assistant to Webmaster Matt Munstermann All past, present and future earthwords staff

THIS PUBLICATION HAS BEEN PAID FOR WITH STUDENT FEES. IT IS FREE TO UNIVERSITY OF IOWA STUDENTS.

IIIIJ

5 the undergraduate literary review earthwards

2007-2008 EARTHWORDSIII

I FROM THE EDITORSTAFF I was headed for the Main Library's Special Collections, a scribbled

note in hand. "Title: Anna Lee," the note said. EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Kinzy Janssen

ADVISER Maureen Perkins

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY EDITORS Mindy Brocka, Quinn Dreasler, Anthony Fippinger, Mandie Pirog

FICTION EDITORS Natasha Bullock-Rest, Tara Atkinson Gunyon, Arna Bontemps Hemenway, Lauren Stanczak

NONFICTION EDITORS Amee Bhavsar, Cory Sanderson, Meg Schafer

POETRY EDITORS Emily Doolittle, Molly Gallentine, Erica Kalnay, Wendy Xu

DESIGN & COPYEDITING Allison Hughes, Victoria Leonard, Maggie Voss, Tara Zelle

PUBLIC RELATIONS Brigette Fanning, Amy Jacobus, Katie Pals, Abi Sonnek

WEBMASTER Emma Barden

A former published author of earthwords had e-mailed me, wondering if we could find his poem that had been published in "either the 1983 or 1984 issue" of earthwords, having lost his copy over the years.

The Special Collections is a seamless, mysterious operation. I handed the student-librarian a slip of paper and he receded into the archives, returning in five minutes with my request-a tidy little box containing ten thin books, packed like crayons.

"Here are the eighties," he said. I unsheathed the first 5x7 book from its case. Earthwords, 1981. I

noticed the font was different, and that the first "eO' was capitalized. There were indices which listed the authors in the back. The pages were plain, not glossy. These books were older than me; older than my older brother. And here I was, excavating a poem that, because it meant a lot to the writer, meant a lot to me. There was such an overwhelming feeling of continuity, reviving this old poem. This is what tradition is all about, I thought.

In a box twenty years from now, 2008 will stick out like the Land of Oz. It will be a new reference point-the first year of color. I'm proud to be part of this trailblazing group. This is the first and only student organization I've ever led. I want to thank Maureen Perkins for easing my stage-fright, and I want to thank the staff for meeting me half·way. Thank you for having opinions. Katie, Abi, Amy and Brigette: your dili­gence in navigating the paperwork was the reason we broke a submissions record this year. Maggie, Allison, Tara, and Tori: thank you for thinking so critically about our image, and for making me see design-potential in the everyday. Congratulations to the published authors and good luck in your future endeavors.

Have fun reading earthwords, 2008, Year of Color.

KINZY JANSSEN earthwords editor-in·chief

4

7 6 earthwards non-fiction

OF EXECUTIVE RESPECT Jefl: the General Corporate Manager of Jimmy John's Sandwiches

once came to the downtown Iowa City store and inquired as to which bicycle deliveryman was the quickest. I replied, "Isn't it obvious?" and motioned towards the blue road bike outside the door. Made mostly of spare parts and hand-me-downs, my delivery bicycle, Panasonic Rex, is the fastest, most beautiful, and most worthy in theJimmyJohn's fleet. I was then assigned a sixty-four dollar delivery to the hospital, which I completed so quickly that the sandwich recipients actually went insane. Thus qualify­ingJimmyJohn's motto: "So fast you'll freak."

OF BEAUTY AND STRENGTH Panasonic Rex was once in a fashion show. Many remarked on its

splendor but doubted its practicality. The skeptics were silenced when, at the after party, I used Panasonic Rex to deliver a party platter in record­breaking style.

While crossing the Iowa City River, a submerged sea dragon spied Panasonic Rex skimming across the water (for we need no bridge). Think­ing it to be a rare and mysterious jeweled water beetle, it attacked, planning to hoard my bike in its under-river lair. The serpent chased us for several miles that morning before -in a deft move, requiring much agility- we led it over the Iowa City Dam, trapping it in the power turbines, dismissing its soul to the Eternal Dark Hall of Serpents ... The rowing team rejoiced and covered Panasonic Rex and myself in seaweed wreaths. The foul beast had been a plague to their kind for generations.

Many have asked me if it is hard, given my physical condition and the state of my bike, to keep the lovely women folk away. I cannot lie, I am man and have my temptations, the slender, smooth, muscular tubing of Panasonic Rex's h'ame, however, keeps me focused.

OF SHORTCOMINGS AND RIVALRIES Panasonic Rex has a single flaw:Just before reaching supersonic speeds,

it is known to shake quite violently, but once past the sonic boom, it rides as smooth as a penguin down a bobsled course.

I was once stifled on a delivery to a far away dorm. As the miser was walking away, smirking with the greedy froth of frugality at the corners of his lips, I pushed hard on a pedal while holding the front brake, kicking dirt onto the back of his Hawkeye jersey. From that point on he was referred to as "Dirty Bird" and eventually dropped out of college as a result of

8 earthwards

the shame. He now works at a bike shop, attempting to create a bicycle to match the splendor of Panasonic Rex. One day, he may want to duel.

OF REMARKABLE PERFORMANCE After seeing Panasonic Rex barrel through a turn with Millennium

Falcon-like speed, Dale Earnhardt Jr. asked if I would be willing to race for him in the upcoming NASCAR event. I told Mr. Earnhardt: "We do not race other men; we race something far less tangible; we race the impatience of a thousand of hungry customers, all wanting that which only we can provide."

Dale was so distraught by the rejection of his offer he accidentally made a right turn at his next race, sending him into the wall.

During a game night, Panasonic Rex and I passed a gaggle of young ladies on their way to the bars. The wind Panasonic Rex produced (like a hundred speeding big rig trucks) was such that as we passed, it blew all the young women's clothes off I made my delivery, and to avoid scandal, returned the same way, blowing the their clothes back on. Few noticed, as the entire event took place in the blink of an eye.

OF CREATION vVhen I completed construction on Panasonic Rex, the Gods were

indeed envious and cursed us with a great storm, a storm whose fierce winds flipped cars, tore up trees, and leveled sorority houses throughout Iowa City. Later, after some deliberation, they realized the magnificence of Panasonic Rex, and rejoiced in the consolation that one of their creations had made such an excellent bicycle.

art 9

HER SIDE Daniel Granias

11 10 earthwords

WELCOME TO THE

GRAYSLAKE FAMILY AQUATIC CENTER: The Official New Employee Orientation Brochure

non-fiction

A BRIEF HISTORY AND WELCOME! The Grayslake Family Aquatic Center was founded in 200 I after the

settling of a long-standing debate in the Grayslake community. When the fifth pool referendum failed in the fall of 2000, the tireless and expensive campaigning of pool advocates, which consisted of handing out occasional paper fliers and illegally posting signs on private property, was again de­feated. It was the Grayslake swimmers' darkest hour, until hope appeared in the form of a very rich man namedjasper Peterson. Mr. Peterson, who claimed to be a native of Grayslake, had a serious problem: he'd "forgot­ten" to claim some of his financial estates on his federal tax forms and the IRS discovered the "accident." In an honorable and timely manor, he selflessly donated half a million dollars to the Grayslake Park District to build the swimming pool they so desperately desired. The Grayslake Family Aquatic Center, formally named the jasper A. Peterson Aquatic Center after its generous founder, was born.

With its colorful and potentially illegal history, the Grayslake Family Aquatic Center welcomes and congratulates you on your acceptance into the workforce. The management hopes that you'll follow the examples of the founding father,jasper: honesty, bravery, and sheer cunning.

EMPLOYEE SCREENING Before you can begin the necessary training, you must first pass the

rigorous employee screening process. Can you spell your name to sign paperwork? Nice job.

FORMAL TRAINING All employees of the Grayslake Family Aquatic Center must be CPR

and First Aid certified. The management, although they never obtained the proper Red Cross certification, can effectively demonstrate the correct procedures themselves. In your first week, you'll learn the safety procedure RE-CPR (Roughly Estimated CPR), which is based almost exclusively on luck.

Specific department training will not occur before opening day, as the management believes very strongly in the 'just wing it" approach. As you are inundated with patrons, money, food, and drowning people, the manage­ment is always available for help. As a general rule, the management office remains locked and unoccupied, even after you see a manager walk inside. If you are in need of assistance, the managers will be inherently aware and will send someone within the next four hours, after your shift ends.

12 13 earthwards

POOL LOVE The management would like to remind you that romantic love

between two Aquatic Center employees is strictly forbidden. And due to the decrease in profits last summer, the Grayslake Family Aquatic Center discourages romantic relationships between its employees and the local competing Aquatic Center in Gurnee.

POOL AMENITIES The Grayslake Family Aquatic Center offers a number of fun,

family orientated activities for all ages. For the youngest patrons, the Aquatic Center recently constructed a Sandpit, filled with water buckets, shovels and gastro-intestinal worms. While the Sandpit remains roped ofl for most of the summer, the small children love to lean on the ropes and cry out in frustration and desperation.

Peaking over the north end of the complex stands the cornerstone of the Aquatic Center: the waterslide. At fifteen feet tall, this mountain of plastic is off limits to anyone without a metal spine or under the height of 42". Patrons enjoy peeling scabs off their backs days after sliding down the purple body slide. Posing for pictures at the end of the slide is highly encouraged, not only for nostalgic reasons, but also for insurance purposes.

Finally, as the basic unit of a swimming pool, the Aquatic Center contains over 40,000 gallons of highly chlorinated water. The management has placed health and safety as its highest priority, therefore the pH of the water is monitored sporadically, showering before entry is not necessary, soap in the bathrooms is just a rumor, and babies are not required to wear swim diapers. Throughout the summer, the deep end will be closed when the water has turned a perfectly normal and healthy "murky" Brown Sharks are spotted periodically, especially on days of high patron attendance, and the water must be evacuated while pool staff "baits" the shark out of the water.

CRISIS Located centrally in the Mid-West, the Grayslake Family Aquatic Cen­

ter is susceptible to the unpredictable and dangerous weather associated with the region: large thunderstorms, flash floods, tornadoes, and hordes of the uneducated. Fortunately, the Aquatic Center uses only the latest in technology to stay alert, which is a telephone that connects a manager with a younger sibling watching the Weather Channel. As an employee caught in the storm, you'll be safe huddling in the concession stand closet, surrounded by terrified co-workers and an abundance of licorice ropes.

non-fiction

REC TRAC LIVE Your lite as an employee of the Aquatic Center will rely heavily upon the

computer program called Rec Trac Live, which was introduced in the summer of 2004. "Rec Trac" is an abbreviation of the words "Recreational Tracking," while "Live" refers to the program's self·aware sentient nature. Adopted by the management in an eflort to replace themselves entirely, Rec Trac Live writes schedules, monitors employee hours, handles admission functions, and even prints paychecks. During the daily crashes of the program, vital employee information will be lost and admissions activity will be completely crippled. As an employee, the Grayslake Family Aquatic Center asks for your continued patience when Rec Trac Live loses track of your hours, forgets to write you on the next schedule, or fails to print your paycheck, again.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS (PATRONS) As the life-source of the pool economy, patrons are very important to

the Aquatic Center. Here is a list of commonly asked patron questions, and their approved employee responses.

Q: What does "resident rate" mean, and how can I have that? A: Resident rate means that you live in Grayslake. You must show

valid ID in order to earn the resident rate. No, raising your right hand and swearing to God is not enough.

Q: Can I bring snacks into the pool? What about alcohol? A: No. Renegade foodstufls are not allowed. We have a concession

stand located on the pool deck for your convenience. Alcohol is permitted only if you are willing to share with underage employees.

Q: My son is eight-years-old. Can he come in alone? A: Yes, unless you want to see him alive again. Q: What is your policy on the lockers in the locker-room? A: Feel free to use them.

Q: But they don't have any locks. A: Well, that's a problem.

Q: I've lost my child; can you use the paging system to call them? A: No, the paging system is used only to announce birthdays, adult

swim and for employees to ask patrons to the Prom. Q: I seem to have lost my goggles/towellsun-screen/swimsuit. Do you

have a lost-and-found? A: Technically, we do, but employees pick through it every night

before closing. Items that are not claimed by employees are either burned or thrown out, depending on the mood of the management.

art 1514 earthwards ..,FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS (EMPLOYEES)

Much like you, new employees are filled with questions about their jobs. In order to avoid directly speaking to you, the management has included this Employee FAQ

Q: Do I earn any benefits by working here? A: The concession stand offers a 10% discount on very selected

items, such as water and napkins. Also, we have decided to let you use the manager's refrigerator to store your lunches (but we are not responsible for the destruction or eating of said lunches).

Q: May I have a raise/request vacation leave? A: Ha. Q: I feel uncomfortable around a few co-workers. What is our sexual

harassment policy? A: The management is very serious about controlling sexual

harassment in the workplace. Our sexual harassment policy is set and enforced by the Aquatic Director. The harassment policy is something he understands and is very experienced with, being a two-time offender himself.

CLOSING AGREEMENT I have read the Official New Employee Brochure and fully understand

its contents. I will be held responsible for its information and held account­able for any problem that may happen at the Grayslake Family Aquatic Center this summer.

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16 earthwards fiction 17

Once there was a very old man who, as he grew older, began to despair more and more about this very fact until the dignity with which he used to face life shrank away to become a pit in his gut. After a night of feeling especially small, he lay in bed a long time tossing and turning, tossing and turning until, finally, he fell asleep. He had been asleep only a short while when a funny thing happened. A great concentration of light broke through the blinds and shone all around the old man's bed, waking him. He rubbed sleep out of his ancient eyes and smacked his gun1S in bemusement.

When he came to, he sat up in order to better take in his surroundings. He propped himself up on pillows and leaned against the headboard of his antique bed. The whole room smelled of must and medicine. Light beamed in through the drawn blinds. Darkness sat in the corners of the room like strangers. It was capable of encroaching at any time. Noticing the dark­ness, the old man took fright. "It's near the end," he whispered. He pulled himself upright, and as he did this, a peculiar thing happened. The light was concentrated almost entirely on the old man; the darkness grew to surround the bed.

"Surely, things like this don't happen for no reason," he said to himself and, frightened by the new life the bedroom seemed to take on, decided to get out of bed right this instant. He thought it better to meet the darkness before it consumed him. "I'll have a look around," he pronounced and pulled himself, piece by piece, out of bed, stretching his feet out to meet the cold, hardwood floor.

To make sure he wasn't seeing things, to make sure he wasn't dreaming, the old man grabbed his glasses off of the nightstand. The clock read 6: 17. The kids would be by in an hour or so.

When the old man put on his glasses, everything came into focus, but nothing changed. Light still surrounded the bed. Darkness waited to snuff it out. He moved straight to the window and drew the blinds. There was the sun, radiant, sitting playfully on the horizon. The old man put a finger to his chin, his brows had a meeting. "That must have been it," he said, and then, out of habit, turned to scrutinize his garden. "The lilac has out­grown the verbena," he noted, "and the hyacinths have been demolished. A shame," he said, and shook his head.

The old man owned what pride told him was the finest house in Middle America. And it really was a nice house. A fresh coat of white paint with blue trim on the outside, three bedrooms, two baths and a screened porch. It was twice as big as the house he'd grown up in with six brothers and sisters besides.

18 earthwards

Nights, in the house of his childhood, after all the others had gone to bed, he would sit up with his mother at the kitchen table. He was the oldest, and it was his privilege to sit up. The old man and his mother, they listened to Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller, and tried to make sense of the America they hadn't inherited. After the big band segment had ended, he would finish his glass of hot milk and crawl onto his mattress under the kitchen table. While covering the table with a massive threadbare blanket, his mother would say "Good night, mijo. Tenga suenos." Then, she would withdraw ruefully to the corner of the room and resume work on a new blanket.

It had taken him a lifetime, it had taken him ages, but the old man had managed to make it from the meatpacking district all the way out to his quaint house in the sprawling western suburbs of Omaha. Christ was dead and back again by 33. Alexander the Great had conquered most of the known world also in less than half his time. Nevertheless, the old man was proud. He had worked hard.

It was because he had worked so hard, blood and sweat, to get his house that it meant so much to him. He was a protector of sorts. Every morning, the kids with the bikes would come by on their way to school, and every morning, the old man would rise to meet them. He would shake with great fury as he watched them ride through his garden on their bikes and take apples from his tree. What the kids didn't feel like eating they would throw at the old man's house. They aimed at him, directly at him, as he yelled from the protection of his screened porch.

"Wham!" "Got him!" "Direct hit!" they would yell. "What the hell is the matter with you kids?" "I'll find out who you kids

are, and tell your parents." "I'll go up to the school and tell them about you kids, you'll see," he would yell back.

It hadn't always been this way, but the more the old man fell into despair, the more vigilant he became of his house. It wasn't even his garden, but his late wife's. He kept it, not out of homage to his beloved, but rather from the irresistibility of the work. The kids hated the old man for being so up-in-arms about his garden, but he had worked hard. He had worked his entire life. And his wife was dead, and his kids were gone, and he had nothing left to work for.

Later, in the afternoons, the old man would go out and pick all the apples ofT of his lawn. Bent over his feeble back, with his head tilted toward the grave, he would say, "Rotten apples. Kids these days are rotten apples."

III

fiction 19

This morning, the old man was thinking of rotten apples. v\Then he was a kid, and he concluded that he had been one at some time, had he been a rotten apple? No. He couldn't have been a rotten apple. The kids with the bikes are the rotten apples. '~ways were and always will be," the old man said. His lips met with the conviction of years upon years.

When he was a young man, no more than a boy really, he didn't have a bike. That was okay because neither did Dale, the Pollack. That's what they called him, the Pollack, and the old man was called Alfie. When all the rest of the kids would tear ofT on their bikes leaving them in the dust, Alfie and the Pollack would stay around the stockyards playing catch, wrestling, scrounging up money for Cokes at Wolczynski's Grocery. Sometimes, they would save up enough to buy bait, and go down to the Mighty Mo to fish.

"Go down to the Might Mo to fish," the sound parted the old man's lips. Something stuck out, but he couldn't remember how it went.

"Go down to the Mighty Mo to fish," the old man repeated. "The Mighty Mo and Dale," he reached, and seemed to grab hold of

something. The old man put his hand to his chin. His fingers framed his mouth.

His brows reconvened. He sat down on the corner of the bed, posing tor a long time. His mind rifled through words, through combinations of words; "Dale, undercurrent, Wolczynski's," "Dale, dust, fishing," Dale ... Dale ... Dale ... until, finally, the fog cleared and memory came rushing in, illumined, as it were, by a great light. The old man traversed space and time to the episode of his childhood...

It's Sunday in early spring. Latin mass is just out. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Go home. I run home, get out of my Sunday best, put on my long pants, roll them into short pants, throw on my raggiest t-shirt, and take off to meet Dale at the corner of Wolczynski's. Dale's birthday, my treat, and I hand the change to old Wolczynski, take the bait and the two Cokes, and then it's down to the riverbank. It's hot, summer hot, and the sweat forms a thin layer so that my shirt sticks to my back.

"It's true what they say about you guys, huh?" Dale says. "You're lucky it's your birthday," I say, making like I'm going to

pound him. The tree line gets thick, real thick, and I stop and unroll my short

pants, making them long pants again. Dale says he's not allergic to poison ivy. "It's a family thing," he says, pushing his chin up. We walk on, right on through to a clearing, a different one, downriver this time from the South Omaha Bridge.

20 earthwards

It's when we get there that I see it. Out in the clearing where the tree line meets the sediment. A Schwinn messenger: frame candy-apple red, beef-tongue red. It's got this magnificent arch at the top. The forks shine brilliantly. Mud splatters across the frame, and I become aware of the sweat running from my temples. The Schwinn has chrome hand-brakes. It's beautiful.

Dale and I are standing side by side, awestruck, when we hear them. The sound comes from upstream, and when I peek out from behind the tree line they're ankle deep in the current. Two of them. Their long pants are short pants too, but they're the nice kind that I'd never go down to the Mighty Mo with. One dips his hand into the current and splashes water on his raw-red shoulders.

"Son of a bitch, it's hot," he yells, and the other yells something I can't quite make out.

My lips are pressed, vacuum-sealed, and I look at Dale and say, "Son­sabitches. Lucky sonsabitches."

But Dale doesn't say a thing, not a damn word. Doesn't make eye contact either. Just stares down at his shoes. The look on his face makes it feel like it's not his birthday anymore and my stomach starts to hurt so that I don't want the Cokes.

Dale shoegazes for so long that I gotta say, "C'mon, Dale. Forget about it, and let's go fishin'. I'll get a pole rigged up for each of us."

It takes him a while. He licks the sweat ofT his upper lip so many times I'm sure it's all gone, and when he looks up, he's biting his cheeks. The heat seems to have gotten into his eyes.

"You're right," I say. "Let's move downstream. "They probably scared all the-

And then Dale's look sort of socks me in the gut. "I'm taking the bike," he says. "Aw, Dale! C'mon now. Don't do that. That's not your bike- it belongs

to one of those kids." "Those spoilt sonsabitches don't deserve that bike. It's my birthday

today, and I know I'll never get a bike without takin' one. I ain't ever seen them kids before. They ain't gonna stop me and neither are you."

"Dale, c'mon now. You can't do that. It don't matter if it's your birthday. It ain't right."

"Look, those spoilt sonabitches don't even care enough to look after their bikes, they shouldn't have 'em. They probably never really wanted anything like I do."

III

fiction 21

"But I have," I say, and I mean it too. "Look, Dale, people like you and me just gotta wait a little while for

things, work a little harder, but they'll come." "No, that ain't they way it is. Look at anyone who's got what they want,

and I betchya they took it. Look at McCuddy down there at the packing houses, with your pa and mine. Goddamn! Negro Adolphus lost his thumb in the meat grinder last week my dad says, all because McCuddy had him cleanin' it without shuttin ofT the power. There's plenty of people who deserve that job, but don't got it. People, Alfie. Pollacks and Spies, just like we're gonna be. Just like we are now. McCuddy don't know shit about shit, and neither do you."

"Dale ­But he moves right on past me. In his eyes, I'm already dust. "Losers weepers," he says. "That's the way it goes." Dale doesn't even look back, and I forget the way he rides off on the

Schwinn. All I remember is that my best friend is gone, and I'm losers­weepers left in the dust. The sun feels like it's crashing down on me, and I feel real, real heavy in the gut. So heavy, in fact, that I don't even move when those spoilt sonsabitches come back and beat the shit out of me.

Even without a bike, with a fat lip, and being altogether losers-weepers, Alfonso GutierrezJr. held his head high when he came home that day. He looked at every single one of his brothers and sisters with the zest of new truth. The youngest, Maria, began to cry.

The old man remembered feeling like he learned something that day. Something that meant something. He refused to take refuge in his mother's arms as she cried. ''Ay, mijo! My mijo! Why has this happened to mijo?"

He held his chin high and spoke calmly and deliberately about what happened. His brothers and sister watched the best they could as he told his story with quiet pride. Dignity. He held a sack of frozen peas to his eye, and frowned when anyone cried.

"That was the beginning of ethics," the old man reflected. "My ethics."

Alfie and his mother were still sitting at the kitchen table when his father came home. Right away, his mother had started in about what had happened to Mijo, moving her hands graciously as she told the story. The little flowers on her black dress flew into the air with the crescendo, and fell gently back down at the denouement.

22 earthwords

Young Alfie sat in silence and didn't correct his mother on the details of the story, so pleased was he with her telling of it. He let the sack of peas rest on the table and displayed the bruise circumscribing his left eye. There was quiet pride in what he had done. "Maybe," he thought, "my father will be proud too."

As soon as his mother finished the story, Alfonso Gutierrez Sr. fixed his black eyes on his son. He didn't say a word. Instead, he moved over to the kitchen counter and picked up a knife and a lime. Alfie's mother moved to the freezer and took a tray of ice over to his father.

''Aren't you even going to say anything to him about it?" she said. Chop! The skin pulled taut over the bones of his fathers arms was

gritty and spackled like the sediment of the Mighty Mo. "You know, Alfie did a thing that a lot of kids wouldn't have done. He

could have been the thief instead of Dale," said his mother. Chop! was the reply the father gave. His lips were pressed, vacuum­

sealed, in consternation. "We could have a stolen bike on our front porch right now. But not

Alfie, he's too good of a boy." The flowers danced back and forth. Though he had never heard it said, Alfie was sure that his mother was beautiful.

Chop! this time the knife came from overhead, splitting the lime with eflortless precision.

"I was thinking, his birthday is coming up, and maybe we should start looking down at Sears and Roebuck for a bike for him."

Alfie's eyes lit up. "Basta ya! Callete!" his father bellowed. He motioned her out of the room, moving the knife in an eloquent

gyre. The years at McCuddy's made the gesture look natural. With his back still to Alfie, Alfonso Gutierrez Sr. opened an overhead cupboard and took out some tequila and a lowball glass. Mter he poured himself a drink, he took a dishrag and dabbed it against the tilted bottle neck. He took a drink and turned toward Alfie.

Alfie said nothing. He sat looking down at his bed underneath the table, sucking on his swollen lip. When his father came over, he picked up Alfie's chin \"Iith stone hands. Alfie's nostrils burned at the odor of tequila. His father's nostrils flared at the smell of dried sweat. Alfie looked into his father's eyes as the tequila rag pressed slowly into his swollen lip. He Mnced and grabbed hard to the sides of the chair. He waited for his father to speak.

"This is what the world does to you, son. Blood and sweat," said Alfonso Sr.

. ,11

fiction 23

Alfie stared into his father's eyes, trying to break their opacity. He wondered why his father was never easy on him.

The old man remembered that humid Sunday night. His father had come home from the bar, dead drunk. Rogelio was with him. He saw himself as a young child, AlfieJr. , holding tightly to his pillow, scanning the massive threadbare blanket on all sides for any movement. His father was telling Rogelio in Spanish something he couldn't understand. Alfonso Sr. didn't teach the kids Spanish so they couldn't understand the arguments between their parents. Whatever his father was saying, he was drunk.

Before long they were stomping around the kitchen at Rogelio's suggestion of "mas tequila." Presently, the old man remembers the fright that came with the clumsy sound. Clunk... clunk... clunk. .. and then, all at once, the blanket flies up from the table, and his father's face looks like silly putty as he laughs a big, voracious laugh. He looks like a painting the old man had seen at the Joslyn where a man stands in horror on a bridge surrounded by violent swirls of color.

He remembers. His father kicks the mattress and he scrambles out from underneath

the table. Alfonso Sr. looks at his son like a wild animal. His black eyes seem to

hang in space. He turns to Rogelio. "Rogelio, el quiere una bicicleta," he says, laughing his big laugh. A light smile comes over Rogelio's ruddy face. "Is it true, Alfie? Your mother says we should get you a bicycle. Is that

what you want?" And he nods. "You're stupid. Just like her. You think that I don't work hard enough

to provide for you and your brothers and sisters. Right, Alfie?" "No, no!" Alfie insists, his eyes growing wide. '~ bicicleta," Alfonso Sr. says. "Cuanto cuesta? Que es valor?" The old man recalls the stench of tequila and fear. "Do you know what a bicycle costs Alfie?" And he nods. "Y-y-yessir." "Yes," Alfonso Sr. bellows. "You know what it costs. But what is it

worth, Alfie? Que es valor?" "Que es valor?" Alfonso Sr. repeats, and seizes his son by the shoulders.

Alfie shakes his head fearfully from side to side. He is on the verge of tears.

24 earthwords

"You don't know," his father is shouting now. "You won't know until you've had to work for every penny of it. How much it's worth. And it's not easy. You'll find out. It's never easy. It only gets worse. No one will appreciate it."

"No," Alfie whimpers. "You'll know. If you want a bike, you'll work for it. Anything in this

world, work for it. And work without stopping." "Work unceasingly." Alfonso Sr. mocks the priest at the Latin Mass.

He traces the sign of the cross. For a while, Alfonso Sr. is quiet, speaking in his own tongue like a man

in reverie. "Que es valor!" he screams, smacking Alfie on the cheek. Rogelio turns his head away. Alfie cries. "Cuanto cuesta? Que es valor?" his father repeats. He grabs Alfie by

the shirt and throws him into the living room. The voice follows him all the way down the hall. "Que es valor? Que es valor? Que es valor?" In the bedroom, Alfie's brothers and sisters sleep two to a bed, and he

III lays there besides. With nothing to rest his head on and nothing to give him comfort and warmth, he lays down on the hard, dirty floor and asks

I", himself over and over, "Que es valor? Que es valor? Que es valor?"

The old man sat reflecting on life, asking himself "Que es valor?" What did it cost, and what was it worth, and what had he done with it? There was something in what his father had said, something of a joke that he had caught that day as he mocked the Latin priest and his holier-than­thou way. "Work, work unceasingly." The old man saw it now. His father was getting at something with his mockery. "Anything you want, work for it." The old man pushed the words forward and watched them carry him through his entire life.

The more the old man reflected, the more he realized that, for him, life was not a luxury to be e~joyed, but a debt to be paid. Life was work. Work was life. Soon after that sweltering Sunday night, he began deliv­ering newspapers, taking the extra time on foot. Eventually, young Alfie raised enough money to buy a bike. It was no Schwinn messenger, but nevertheless young Alfie was proud. He had worked hard. Maybe his father was right, maybe he had never really appreciated the value of hard work.

The more he worked, the more he felt the value of having some-

fiction 25

thing, something that meant something. No sooner than he bought his bike did he ride it down to the restaurants. There was Johnny's, where he worked as a bus boy after school. There was Owl's Chicken Hut, where the owners were good to him and, when it was his birthday, gave him anything he wanted on the menu. There was the car he wanted, with wheel wells that were shiny and chrome-metallic. There was the car he got, with wheel wells that didn't stick out, and were rusted besides. There were the girls in his class and there were movies to take them to. Anything he wanted, he worked for it. And so it went.

One summer, after his junior year of high school, Alfie's father got him what he called his "first real job" working on the beef line in the packing house. Alfonso Jr. was kept down, on the killing floor, with all the other Mexicans in that nightmare vision of Henry Ford's America. The packing house looked like mechanized fallout shelter replete with inlets and outlets for the deceased and adventurous to the world above. But it was a killing factory, a slaughterhouse. There were concrete floors and walls with no paint, but

blood spatters everywhere. Poles and Mexicans pack into the packing house,

standing one by one at their posts down the line. AlfonsoJr. is third-down­the-line. Hisjob is to cut the tongues out of the cattle and throw them into a bucket for processing. His first day on the floor there is an incident.

Alfonso Jr. is third-down-the-line, trying to get a grip on his knife, when the cattle come in. His father waits five slots down, knife in hand, standing ready to flank the cattle. The cattle come down the belt secured and fastened, their necks braced to prevent movement. Seldom do they moo before the first man, equipped with a pressurized air gun, drives a small, steel spike through their skull. Theirs is a death crosseyed and painless and easier to watch than the .22s that were so inefficient; that shattered on impact; that were responsible for the scar on Alfonso Sr. 's right forearm.

The second man is the bleeder. As each cow comes by, he slits its throat. Blood splatters everywhere so that Alfie has shoes stained crimson within his first five minutes on the job. Then, it is his turn. He is to take the tongues up with his left and cut up under with his right. It sounds easy enough, but what no one bothers to tell him is to stay away from the jaw bone.

With each cow that comes down, Alfonso Jr. feels his blade getting

26 earthwards

duller and duller. The more he tries to stay away, the more bone he hits. The whole process is bizarre, and the unnaturalness of it makes the fear rise up in his chest. He begins to seize up. The tongues become more and more work, and the line moves slower and slower.

The men did piecework, and so before long the man next to him, a Pole with a long face and stringy blond hair, begins striking his knife against the side of his tin sanitizing dish. Clank... clank...clank. .. the din moves down the line, joined by the shouts of men.

The old man hears them even now. "Hurry up down there!" "What's the hold up?" "What the hell is wrong?" '~dele! Rapido!" The noise moves down the line in a direct current. Then, it stops.

With the push of a button, there is a buzz and a whir like a machine table that has gone too far and, like a penitent, wishes to back up. The line stops. The voices continue undulating until they reach the head of the line some twenty men down.

The supervisor, old Irish McCuddy, bolts down the stairs. Red in the face and hands flailing, he marches to a Mexican named Dominguez at the head of the line. AlfonsoJr. gapes in disbelief He knows about McCuddy. To be humiliated on his first day, and in front of his father! He opens his eyes wide to make sure he isn't dreaming when Dominguez turns and points not at him, but further down, at his father.

McCuddy's face turns sour and his jaw crooks to the right as he pushes his tousled black hair back from his forehead. He moves with deliberate, short steps. Everyone turns to Alfonso Sr.

"Hey, Pancho, is that your boy down there?" "The name's Alfonso, sir." "I said Hey-Pan-cho is that your boy down there, slowing up the line?"

McCuddy says, puffing out his chest. "Yes, that's my son," says Alfonso Sr., face like a stone. "Well then, Pan-cho, why don't you see if you can go down there and

help little Panchito out with those tongues, unless you want him out of here. Then, I'll put you where he is."

Alfonso Sr. stands there for a long time before he turns and walks silently back to his boy. Outwardly, he is biting his cheeks, his eyes are heavy. "But God help me if there wasn't a smile under there," the old man reflects. And now, in his mind, it seems that yes, there was a smile, a

fiction 27

consolatory one, which seemed to say "Nothing is so serious, Alfie. Nothing, really, is so serious."

In complete silence, with great precision, Alfonso Sr. takes up the knife to cut out the tongues. And indeed it is a smile -- it's alright if it's uneasy­that comes over his father face as he counts.

"Uno." Slice! "Dos." Slice! "Tres." Slice! "Cuatro." Slice! "Cinco." Slice! "Seis." Slice! At the sound of the last tongue hitting the bucket, Alfonso Sr. looks his

son straight in the eyes. As the younger cowers, the older breaks just a little. The opacity of Alfonso Sr. 's black eyes soften just enough, like a faltering of purpose, that the son understands.

Que es valor? With a nod, Alfonso Sr. gives the knife back to his son. AlfonsoJr. grips

it, and this time it feels right. His father turns around and makes his way back to McCuddy. "Ready," Alfonso Sr. says, picking up his knife to wait for Uno, Dos, Tres, Cuatro, Cinco y Seis.

Time passed quickly after that; in long days and short years. The old man moved from the killing floor to the killing field. He did recon on Pork Chop Hill, and his valor there propelled him to first-class private as well as first-class citizen. It always seemed funny to Alfonso that, at home, he was a Mexican, but in Korea, he was American. His uniform shouldn't have been his foothold to the good life. But he never had time to worry over that.

He met a woman, Sandra, an American nurse in Korea and, when the war was over, they moved in together. Alfonso GutierrezJr. finished his electrical training and, sure enough, they got married.

The wedding vow was stolen. Some proverb she'd heard from an an­

--28 earthwards

aesthetized soldier. She had cried when she heard it, and would repeat it to him over and over again, in canvas tents and mess halls.

"May the poetry of your love never become prose." But it did. Before they knew it, life was a drawn-out script, and there was nothing

to do but to move from one end to the next. He was an electrician, and she was a nurse. They had kids of their own, a son and a daughter. The years went by and by.

AlfonsoJr. continued to work. They moved from the apartment in the city to the house out of town, and finally, to the quaint home in the west Omaha suburb. He got used to moderate wealth and wore it with quiet pride. Dignity. He warmed up to love and, with time, felt almost worthy of it. These things too took work.

He buried his parents. His mother died slowly, of cancer. All his brothers and sisters were there, gathered around her and weeping, but Alfonso Sr. did not weep. He knew her soul would be whitewashed, and she would be carried away in the wind, happy.

His father too died, without a word, in his favorite bar a block from his house on X Street. A stroke in the left frontal lobe rendered him speech­less, but Alfonso Jr. had heard his last. He can still hear the words hidden behind black eyes, coming across the chasms, from the other side of death...

When the eyes screw up in his head, they move more than up- they move out. Into me, scraping me, visceral and violent. Transmigration, possession. Eyes without a face, and I'm wracked with grief so deep that I no longer exist. He's not saying anything. Not anything. But god, oh god, is there sound! Maria and mom, screaming and shouting, primal and full of fear. It's so bad that my senses stop up, the speed of sound slows down, and all is great white noise. He's not speaking! A lifetime of work and it's come to this: He can't speak. He's speechless now. He has nothing to say for himself. Was it worth it? Was it even worth it? Goddammit dad! God damn you!

Dad's not dad, he is me. And when the eyes screw back and up and out of his head, it's white. Comatose. The lines of the barroom floor fall out so it is all white. Everything is all white. Nothing's so serious, Alfie. Everything is all- His eyes smile on me, and it is too much. I put my head to his bony chest, but still, I can't bear it. I'm scraped from the inside, and out come the raucous cries­

"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you."

fiction 29

And, of course he can't actually say it. But I know it, now. I know it. "I love you. I love you. I love you." Time disappears. Nothing's around. I forget where he ends and I

begin. When I come to, when what's inside returns and sits heavy like lead in

the pit of my gut, I realize I'm no longer with dad on the floor. He is dead. He is gone. I'm looking at mom and Maria. I'm looking at faces I'll never forget, telling them that I love them. I am my father's necromancer.

From that day onward, Alfonso Gutierrez Jr. would let no one, not even his wife, refer to him as Alfie. He was Alfonso Gutierrez now. Sandy was still Sandy. Long after- when their son became professor of astrophys­ics at Wisocnsin-Lacrosse, and their daughter became athletic trainer and happy wife of the seconds-string quarterback of the Seattle Seahawks ­Alfonso made it his duty to watch every Seahawks game.

Sandy started her garden. Life moved on like this, a series of measured tasks. With a home of

his own and kids abroad, with a wife and a garden, Alfonso always found something to do. For a long time, for as long as his mind was occupied and his hands were working, Alfonso GutierrezJr. was happy.

The clock on the nightstand read 7:07. The kids would be by any minute now. Alfonso GutierrezJr., now an old man, sat on the edge of his queen antique bed alone. His wife was dead, and his kids were gone, and he had nothing left to work for. He sat on the edge of darkness. He sat at the end of life.

Life was work and work was finished and euanto cuesta and Que es valor? His father had said nothing when he died, and the old man thought

he too would soon die in nada y nada y nada. But perhaps there was noth­ing to be said, nothing one needed to say, at the end of life, if one acted correctly. And the stroke for his father? It was because there was always much more understanding in his eyes, in his gesture, than he had ever been able to articulate.

The old man recalled that day at the packing plant, his father's eyes, their opacity breaking and the light coming through, "Nothing is so serious, Alfie. Nothing, really, is so serious." And even though they said that the stroke would have made it impossible for Alfonso Sr. to smile at death, the old man knew better.

r ­ --, '\ 30 earthwards fiction 31

There were many things that the old man knew so well they needn't be spoken. His own father, and how he had worked, blood and sweat, to provide for them. So what if he didn't know how to say love? He knew it that day at the bar. His father had loved. His mother too, with patience and mercy. All the silent things that held them together. She moved silently with the wind, he was sure.

The old man saw, with great lucidity. where he came from. His mother's love. His father's hard work. And if he too had spent his life so that his children could stand on his shoulders, then all the better. That too was a legacy.

The light in the bedroom was shining brighter than ever. The old man was also radiant. The pit of his gut imploded and he burned white hot. His life had been a good one, worthy beyond measure.

The clock read 7: 14. "The kids will be here any minute," the old man said. Work was over, and he had it in his head that he was going out to meet the sun.

His feet strode along the cold, hardwood floor. Down the hallway, through the dining room, into the living room, where he stopped, right behind the front door, and peered surreptitiously out. The kids were nowhere in sight. Moving lightly, the old man positioned himself, crouching behind the junipers that surrounded his screened porch like a moat.

The old man brimmed with excitement when he heard their voices coming around the corner. It sounded like three voices this time. "Maybe one of the boys had stayed home sick, or maybe to the dentist," the old man thought to himself, trying not to make a stir. One bike, and then another crashed to the ground. "Those spoilt sons-of bitches don't even care enough to look after their bikes, they shouldn't have 'em," the old man thought, sniggering to himself. After that, all was quiet for so long that the old man thought he may have missed his chance.

Wham! An apple hit the screen and dropped a couple feet from the old man.

"Come on out, you old geezer!" the first boy said. The old man smiled to himself. Wham! Another apple hit the screen, and this time the old man had to

put his hand up to deflect it. Wham! "Where are you, you old bastard?" the first boy. "Maybe he finally croaked," a second. Not yet. Wham! Wham! The two hit and fell on either side of the old man.

"Did you finally croak old man?" the first boy yelled, more audacious than ever.

Not yet. "He's finished! He finally croaked!" the first boy shouted.

"Ding dong the prick is dead, which old prick, this old prick! Ding dong-

Now. The old man bounded from the bush, taking the third boy's bike

before it even hit the ground. He moved at the boys so fast that they couldn't even speak. Just like a ghost. As he moved, he saw nothing of the boys, or the garden, or the yard, or Maple Street at all. He saw something else.

As he moved, the old man sawall the points in space and time that had connected to become his life flash before him in a series of beatific visions. Love, hope, strife and fear moving all the way to the back of life where the reds and blues and greens and yellows blended into one great, white light. Standing there, in white light and without a word, was his father. He was smiling, and it was not uneasy, and there was nothing else.

The third boy recovered himself enough to shout, "Hey! Hey, you old bastard! Why don't you get your own bike?"

The sun shone brighter than ever, enveloping the entire hill atop Maple Street, and the old man burned white-hot in his ascension. All was great, white light where the father stood, still smiling.

"Cuanto cuesta? Que es valor?" the old man shouted, and smiled brilliantly as he rode into the rising sun.

II 1

11:j . 32 earthwards art 33 .,

ii'

jI!!...w_.,

RUSH WATERFALL IN THE MICHIGAN UPPER PENINSULA Tim Rosener

WOMAN SHOPPING Phoebe Webb

34 earthwards

RED HORSE REVELRY

,·11

fiction 35

All is beautiful, the spring is well. Fresh air, strong current, live bait. Try to stop me.

Those days were glorious. The river crawled slowly, ink-black and powerful. It was flowing calligraphy in an ancient valley. Towering oaks and sprawling willow trees lined the upper-bank, their sagging branches gently sipping the water. Below, nearer the shore, brittle reeds whistled in the wind, laughing at the fisherman who would come and crunch them.

I was young then, and my father was old. We'd scale down the riverbank like shadows in the fading sun. Discreet and calculated, because the fish are intelligent, my dad would say. Noise is disrespectful. The incline was steep and oftentimes muddy from the frequent spring down­pours, but the river cast an entrancing spell, too powerful to ignore. We'd settle in and he'd prepare the rods, my father. Tight knots, fresh bait, and sharp hooks. He was the best surgeon I'd ever seen. He was careful with the tackle, cupping sinkers, chartreuse-colored beads, and treble hooks like a mother cradles a first-born. We'd sit on buckets rigged dangerously into the hillside, unbalanced and uncomfortable. The sun would be shining, then, and the spring air exploding with life. Robins danced around us, singing in glorious cadence, and insects, as vast and varied as the universe, emerged from the winter's dullness. He'd cast for me. Low, strong and confident. I wasn't sure where he was aiming, but I was certain he never missed the mark. When both lines were cast, I'd sometimes venture into the hillside, finding forked-sticks to stab into the earth and perch our rods on. Other times, we held them ourselves, keeping a finger on the line, feeling the soft: kiss of the bottom flirt with our fingertips. Dad preferred this.

I'd study the river, then, marvel at its impenetrable darkness. The power of its current steady against the stable riverbank. I watched logs and other snags flow by, on a journey I couldn't fathom. He'd point, my father, to my rod tip hoisted high in the air. Tap, tap .... tap,tap .... tap-tap­tap, a short, biting rhythm that plays in my dreams. I'd nod and grab the reel, my finger-tip diagnosing the line. He'd taught me to see with the nerves of my fingers. Concentration was essential, I closed my eyes and felt. Felt as she played with the bait, knocking into it stupidly. I felt when the hook pierced her mouth, and felt when she darted away into darkness,

36 earthwards art 37

afraid and attached to a line. My father also taught me to set the hook, not hard, but not soft. He taught me to reel, not fast yet not too slow. And he taught me to fight the catch, respecting the ancient challenge. They were strong, the red-horse we sought, and they feared the daylight with every cell in their body. They were curious creatures, traversing this river only once a year to lay their eggs and perpetuate the rhythm of life. The females were hugely pregnant, bursting with eggs. The males were virile and eager, spilling sperm on the touch.

A paradox when they broke the surface, their large fins wine-red and thrusting against the licorice-black water. Their scales were smooth and their mouths shaped into a comical pucker. He taught me to get them on shore, quickly, without letting them flop about. He showed me how to snatch them in one quick movement and remove the hook from their mouths. He'd throw the fish back immediately, he looked mad when they bled and even madder when they surfaced belly up twenty-feet downstream, like they sometimes did. If the hook was clean, he'd pick a fresh worm to impale. If the worm was reusable, there was no need to change. Then he'd cast, low and strong, into that mysterious life-force­never far from where the sinker splashed before. And with this, not a word, there was never a need and I could never find one. Not to suffice. It was beautiful, just beautiful.

UNTITLED Hailey Malone

SLIME SPOON Jeanette VanderMey

1 38 earthwords poetry 39

Sometimes, while loading. • • (double cinquain) Unused to movement, change: bred for large breasts, small brains. Turkeys may panic in load chute­stampede. Five dead toms, necks broken, hung by feet from rafter. Farmer slits throats, bleeds them out - eats his loss.

by Leighton Christiansen

LIFE'S FIRST ADVENTURE

•by Tiffanie Teeple

It is true that I am at my sanest when I carry thoughts Like lint in my pocket And I'm not really all that into Jesus Which I discovered when I was only soft flesh Like the squishy cheese curds from Wisconsin And it is true that my birth was a big debate in the 80s It went back and forth over smoky conversations In the kitchen after the children went to sleep And it is true that one can invest much time In the construction of a well executed sand castle But I still wonder how there could be rocks underneath these saplings Which take the shape of a slumbering Mussolini

40 earthwords

STORY YES

by Helene Achanzar

Birds spray out of the ground and make shards of the rising sun and so our story begins Trees that flower burst open white and soft

Year seventeen and the cicadas never found their way out of the earth

So diiferent from ordinary noise this inevitable rising of the sea

A missed return flight If only to be born of metal How to hate the body so easily broken cancerous or full of bullets How to be so empty we float

poetry 41

We sit under an awning during an afternoon storm and I know my heart looks like an apple How an apple can puncture silence with its skin He sips his cotlee talks of work No longer this joke of age

If home is a confession none of us are returning

Drinking wine from the cup of my lover's hands the dizziness of a staircase a sound like the crack of a sunflower seed opening forever not in the way of an echo but more in terms of what will soon only be a hard shell He says I shouldn't be broken only in case of emergency says in the mildest of ways yes

How to tell a iather whose name isJoseph that his sonJoseph is dead Joseph Joseph is dead

In a crowded room a woman who sings only to me of home and your embers never fade in your city by the lake None of us though perforated in dreams are going back

Playing number puzzles in bed he says to write songs again says cut it off says When are you moving here he does not ask if How to respond to a face lambent even in sleep however selfish a middle night dream ruptured by his elbow in my mouth

To rest asleep on the train until the last stop meet the Atlantic at sunrise cold overnight sand The boardwalk creaks more often the longer we stay A scarf made of brown thread that smells like the ocean and I learn that yes and honesty are two ditlerent moments

A return flight The script says cry like we've lost our house in a fire rooms full of precious things A fire escape barred means we're leaving A pile of dust on the floor means we're never coming back

42 earthwords poetry 43

UNTITLED Caitlin Wilp

Letter after a long winter, an old Spring The river's ice blanket is broken. That is how we obtained these soft glaciers which are purely ornamental. They will be carving no canyons. They are more like clouds for our road salt run-off polluted new spring river. Who is this You in every poem? you asked once. They must be

someone amazing. But today, this first day, You is your very self even though you are not yourself today. It has been a long time and I am sorry.

Marvin Bell says that poets set themselves on fire. Maybe it will disappoint you, but I was not burning to write you. I was driving home past the river with my groceries.

BY TARA ATKINSON GUNYON

-~..L'iii

46 earthwards the undergraduate literary review 47

IAUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

HELENE ACHANZAR is from the city of Chicago. She is a Kundiman Fellow whose current projects include a collaborative chapbook. LEIGHTON CHRISTIANSEN is a full-time truck driver, a three­quarter time student, and an occasional poet. He started his English B.A. in 1986, and hopes to finish by 2009.

NICK COMPTON is a junior journalism student from the hills of northeastern Iowa. Infected at birth, he's spent much of his 21 years on earth searching for the antidote.

STEVEN FLORES is a senior studying Philosophy and English. He likes to write, but is very slow at it.

TARA ATKINSON GUNYON writes fiction and poetry and is an intern at the "Iowa Review."

TIFFANIE TEEPLE is a senior at the University of Iowa. English is her major, with a minor in Italian, and she has been writing poetry for about one year. CHRIS THOMAS

SCOTT WILSON is a U of I senior, majoring in English. When he grows up, he wants to write for magazines. He has written for Content Magazine and the Daily Iowan.

WHO HAS CONTROL OF THE ARTIST? Lee Johnson

48 earthwards

ARTIST BIOGRAPHIES DANIEL GRANIAS is studying art, education, and entrepre­neurship at the University of Iowa and is the RA for the (amazing) Performing Arts Learning Community. Daniel has come a long way since he first started school at Iowa and would like to thank his parents, peers, professors, and residents for changing and shaping his life. Daniel also enjoys watching the sun set and other such moments of overt sentimentality.

LEE JOHNSON is a student at the University of Iowa, finishing degrees in both studio art and nursing. His art has congealed from the surreal fusion of hard sciences and art.

HAILEY MALONE is a freshman at the University of Iowa. She plans to be an art major, and loves photography, preferring an SLR camera to modern digital ones, although she shot this digitally.

TIM ROSENER JEANETTE VANDERMEY is a first-year student at the University of Iowa and am majoring in 3D studio art, concentrating in jewelry and metal design. I hope to one day become a professional jewelry designer. I love all types of 3D art, and took many classes in high school, including AP jewelry and metal design.

PHOEBE WEBB is a cinema major who makes a mean apple pie and wants to be a cheese maker or a farmer when she grows up. CAITLYN WILP is a first-year art major at the University of Iowa. DAVID ZORN is a king amongst men.