A Line of Cells with it, pulled it up between my naked legs and observed a mosaic of brown clots adhered to planes of lighter, thinner brown and red. I squeezed instinctual muscles, felt creases of skin come closer together; felt them like fingers on a cut: comforting, close and wet. The floor... Show moreA Line of Cells with it, pulled it up between my naked legs and observed a mosaic of brown clots adhered to planes of lighter, thinner brown and red. I squeezed instinctual muscles, felt creases of skin come closer together; felt them like fingers on a cut: comforting, close and wet. The floor had such small tiles; the little gutters that ran between them full of lint and hair and an occasional centipede. At random, very deliberately random, intervals, a tan tile was inserted in place of a white one. It was the kind of random placement that makes people delight at patterns. I imag— ined thick men on their hands and knees caulking tiles and trying desperately to avoid placing too many near each other. Maybe they formed boxes for fun, or crosses, but not on my floor. Or maybe the whole thing was made in giant sheets at some factory far away and an old woman made a discrete cross in each five foot square she stamped together and somehow, in a bathroom in Los Gatos, the whole thing got flipped upside down and the cross got cov- ered up by plumbing or sat inverted in the middle of the floor, transfixed in the gaze of a nineteen year—old girl between the hazy globes of her knees. Which ever, I am sure those men loved making lines, sparse grids; some, I’m sure, even made great allusions to whole configurations. I hadn’t found one on my floor yet. I even tried counting along each individual line, trying to see if there was any pattern in number of spaces between tan tiles. I think maybe if I saw a larger floor . . . I had a friend whose base- ment ceiling was perforated with millions of little holes. I pulled the paper forward, felt it bring shreds of skin They were spaced in ranks of threes, fours, twos, threes and twos; but you couldn’t really see that without lying on your back and looking at the whole thing. They had stag- gered each row so that it began in a different place, so the columns wouldn’t match up. 44 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
around them was starting to puff out and crack; it looked like a vein had been dried in the sun and adhered to my ceiling. I could see where the pipe led into the wall, where it joined our plumbing to some gigantic central pipe that carried torrents of hot water to all the apartments in our... Show morearound them was starting to puff out and crack; it looked like a vein had been dried in the sun and adhered to my ceiling. I could see where the pipe led into the wall, where it joined our plumbing to some gigantic central pipe that carried torrents of hot water to all the apartments in our building. I could hear the old lady next door taking showers. We seldom bathed at the same time, but when we did we stood there, separated only by two slabs of sheet rock and a framework of beams, and soaped our naked bodies. She lived alone; I suppose she could have thought I was my roommate, but I knew it was her. I knew she was stepping into the scalding water (our pipes vomit- ed hot and drooled cold), or taking the pressure down to a trickle so that the heat was bearable. She would be rubbing moisturizing body wash into the furrows of her skin with soft cloth, too sensitive for loofas or cheap rags. Her whole body must look like my scrotum; her skin was already saggy and so thin the arteries seemed to be falling off her bones. I imagined her getting all pink and plump, her skin shrinking away from the extremes that irritate old people, growing taut over her stomach, her face twitching in the long bursts of water that shattered off lime deposits and wet her thin hair to her skull. I wondered if some day I might leave, hearing her shower still running through the layers of must and beams, and come back to find she had died there next to me. They would have her door propped open. A young man in white would turn his head back and see my eyes follow the line of a wet white sheet that was being folded near the muted television and he would let his eyes grow dark and turn back to a long black sack and the sound of a zipper that would follow me up the stairs before the heavy green fire—door shut it out. T he pipes behind the shower leaked. The plaster my father’s fingers when he used to play guitar. It was like spun copper. It hung against the blue sky, was comfortable on the yellow lines of the nearly empty T h e morning smell of the gas plant reminded me of Show less
duced endless streams of corpses, like tributaries all trick— ling down to Oak Hill where the dead were stuffed in plots and tagged with crosses and verdant wreaths. But industry had graveyards too. Oak Hill divided the heavily traveled main road from a section of town that was disguised on all... Show moreduced endless streams of corpses, like tributaries all trick— ling down to Oak Hill where the dead were stuffed in plots and tagged with crosses and verdant wreaths. But industry had graveyards too. Oak Hill divided the heavily traveled main road from a section of town that was disguised on all fronts by apartment buildings, strip malls and quaint Suburban homes. Behind this facade, however, an expanse of ground was littered with refuse. The train tracks ran under the highway 62 bridge and disappeared into a small gap between a row of trees and a fence over— grown with brown plants. A rusted boxcar blocked any entrance, but if you climbed along side it, passed piles of broken chairs, hay and damp paper, you came to a field lit— tered with massive cement relics. They were bits of park- ing garages, pieces of floors or ceilings. They lay stacked in disarray like gargantuan, grey Linkin’ Logs; like the toys of some child who had shoved them in a box beneath his bed. They were the ready made constructs of vehicle storage, the boards of an old shed no one wanted to throw away because they might need them again some day. Their sides were slathered with spray paint; they rested cumber— somely heaps ofjunk. From the ground they formed mazes with broken, concrete walls, strange wires, chunks of stone and metal; from above they stretched out like pas— tures of bones. first saw the cells in my eyes when I was I camping near the St. Croix River. I was writing on a yellow piece of paper when they darted (clear and long, in a convoluted row) in little spurts from the end of my sentence to the margin of the page. They looked liked a long, transparent worm, filled with little bubbles. They darted away from my gaze, always reestablishing themselves at the out— skirts of my vision. I turned my brain towards them, held my eye still and watched them quivering on the page. They were not on the page, but in my eye. I couldn’t look at the page without seeing them, but MURPHY SQUARE 47 Show less
lot, sat in my still-wet hair. It reminded me of brown water' between rocks. The sky contained nothing. It was flat blue, not endless, but a sheet of colored paper rolled around the world. The trees on Oak Hill splashes of black water, like droplets exploded by a burst of air. It seemed so... Show morelot, sat in my still-wet hair. It reminded me of brown water' between rocks. The sky contained nothing. It was flat blue, not endless, but a sheet of colored paper rolled around the world. The trees on Oak Hill splashes of black water, like droplets exploded by a burst of air. It seemed so strange to have arranged our dead there: Oak Hill. remarkable spot, just a left over plot between the church and the bus garage; not even a hill, more like a pitiful It was not a hump. A young man in overalls used to mow the lawn every Thursday. He would putt about on his mower, mak— ing sharp turns around the corners of graves. He must have had a wonderfully solitary job. The water tower required frequent maintenance, though. It was old and shaped like a miniature spire, like a thin Chinese man in a black hat. It must have been continually clogged with moss and bundles of insects, or the corpses of bats. It was meant to provide water for those who wished to water the flowers they had placed near deceased relatives. Those very flow— ers that rooted in the skulls and scraps of fat, that wormed white tendrils down into the indifferent skeletons, that sucked at fetid marrow and bloomed in explosions of white and red and purple. Those very flowers people tended like the dead themselves, and 0 how glad grandma would be if she could see these hyacinths blooming by her head—stone, Danni, she loved hyacinths, oh I just know she sees them from above and she is the proudest angle in heaven, she loved you so much too, she was a loving woman, Danni, she never meant to harm a soul. And the flowers listed in the wind and siphoned off chambers of juices and quivered like tiny indigo deltas fattened out of long-buried pleats of flesh. al squares housed thousands of the nearly—dead. Those buildings clustered around Woodlake like stacks of shoeboxes miles high all filled with some pros- trate senior, comfortably packaged and stored for easy T he Suburbs were full of cemeteries. Bland industri- retrieval when the cessation of breath necessitated their burial. Long, one—floor buildings with sliding doors pro- 46 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
Mother My wife died-singeing heroine in her veins. I told the coroner not to embalm her, that she’d substituted enough for blood. My name is Orin Seit: I’m a chef and my girl’s name is Lola. Lola is a culinary prodigy: at five she began with sim- ple sauces; by six she had mastered the souffle’;... Show moreMother My wife died-singeing heroine in her veins. I told the coroner not to embalm her, that she’d substituted enough for blood. My name is Orin Seit: I’m a chef and my girl’s name is Lola. Lola is a culinary prodigy: at five she began with sim- ple sauces; by six she had mastered the souffle’; now at age twelve she cooks everything- a consummate apprentice. I’m proud but worried: last month I heard her telling an orange—glazed quail breast that she just had her first period. She needed mom. We cook together on weekends (we’re writing a cook book). She wants to call it Food Fills More Than Your Belly. don’t like it: she loves food but barely eats: she’s sus- I tell her it’s too literal, but that’s not why I tained by tasting her creations, but only in early stages—never touches them finished. I asked her what food fills or fulfills. She replied, CCMe.99 My name is Orin Seit: I’m a chef and my girl’s name is Lola. 54 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
After my wife’s funeral, Lola prepared her first full course meal for sixteen of our family. She was eight. During the fifth course, Baked Alaska, I told her to sit down and rest, that she should eat, it was good; she was too busy right then. Minutes later, she yelped from the kitchen. I ran in;... Show moreAfter my wife’s funeral, Lola prepared her first full course meal for sixteen of our family. She was eight. During the fifth course, Baked Alaska, I told her to sit down and rest, that she should eat, it was good; she was too busy right then. Minutes later, she yelped from the kitchen. I ran in; she had cut her finger slicing a raspberry - A large drop of deep blood on the slit. She raised it to me and I tasted- perfectly balanced as it tingled my palate. I’m Orin Seit: I’m a man and Lola’s my girl. DAVID RETTENMAIER MURPHY SQUARE 55 Show less
Journey To Miss Piggy Miss Piggy, the ultimate, thoroughly Modern Millie of the times, Victorian hourglass poured out unto the New Age for womankind My dream woman, Miss Twiggy turned piggy Thou blonde bomb, destroy the myths of the ages set your eye upon a silk purse and a pearl, You go, girl,... Show moreJourney To Miss Piggy Miss Piggy, the ultimate, thoroughly Modern Millie of the times, Victorian hourglass poured out unto the New Age for womankind My dream woman, Miss Twiggy turned piggy Thou blonde bomb, destroy the myths of the ages set your eye upon a silk purse and a pearl, You go, girl, take these times for a whirl! Dazzly, batty-blue peepers, dressed in purple and pink Hoofing it down to the Piggly Wiggly in kick box heels, kicking up some fun with the aisle hogs. Gettin’ Real Five-foot two, eyes of blue, Sooey, sooey, sooey soo Has anybody seen my alter ego? GRETCHEN WAIDELAND MURPHY SQUARE 57 Show less
I Loved I never knew I loved the Birds, They used to sing sweet melodies to me, in the springtime. They don’t sing to me anymore, They won’t even look at me. I never knew I loved the Sun, The way she would embrace me and fill me with warmth. Now I sit cold and alone in the darkness, waiting for... Show moreI Loved I never knew I loved the Birds, They used to sing sweet melodies to me, in the springtime. They don’t sing to me anymore, They won’t even look at me. I never knew I loved the Sun, The way she would embrace me and fill me with warmth. Now I sit cold and alone in the darkness, waiting for her to come back to me. I never knew I loved the Clouds, The way they would unite and pose for me. I don’t see them anymore, They hide behind skyscrapers and laugh at my ignorance. I never knew I loved the Waters, I used to go to the beach and let the waves study my form. They studied my form for as long as they wanted and left, Never to return to me. I never knew I loved the Wind, He would whisper sweet things to me. I never took him seriously and he stopped whispering. I never knew I loved the Trees, They used to dance to the rhythm of Nature’s breath for me. I criticized their moves and they left to dance for someone else. I never knew I loved Nature, The way she smiled at me when no one else would. The way she was always there for me. And I wasn’t there when she most needed me. I never got to say good bye. KENEESHIA WILLIAMS 58 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
VVater Changing the hoses Changing them from row to row I will change the water because Dad says so and I’m sick of the arguing. When I’m gone I can smoke a little in the sage. Draw from the pipe if I can, but I won’t Because Iknow where to water. Where the grass is brown: the earth is large, and... Show moreVVater Changing the hoses Changing them from row to row I will change the water because Dad says so and I’m sick of the arguing. When I’m gone I can smoke a little in the sage. Draw from the pipe if I can, but I won’t Because Iknow where to water. Where the grass is brown: the earth is large, and firm. After Ihave been frustrated enough By the stiffness of black hoses and flimsy white fittings, after my clothes are soaked and my feet cold, I can catch a glimpse of the light caught on the wet apple leaves. And Iknow one-day Dad will quit drinking and mom Mom will get her fix too. MICHEL BOUDREAUX MURPHY SQUARE 59 Show less
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: AUGSBURG COLLEGE BOOKSTORE, NORM HOLEN, BOYD KOEHLER, CASS DALGLISH, JOHN MCCAFFREY, EDDIE TA N, BELLA, CAMILLE WEIXEL, CHRIS KIMBALL, AND A SPECIAL THANKS TO MIKE KUZMA AT FLAIRE PRINTING AND ALL THE WRITERS AND ARTISTS WHO SUBMITTED WORKS THIS YEAR. MURPHY SQUARE APOLOGIZES TO... Show moreACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: AUGSBURG COLLEGE BOOKSTORE, NORM HOLEN, BOYD KOEHLER, CASS DALGLISH, JOHN MCCAFFREY, EDDIE TA N, BELLA, CAMILLE WEIXEL, CHRIS KIMBALL, AND A SPECIAL THANKS TO MIKE KUZMA AT FLAIRE PRINTING AND ALL THE WRITERS AND ARTISTS WHO SUBMITTED WORKS THIS YEAR. MURPHY SQUARE APOLOGIZES TO THOSE PEOPLE INEXPLICABLY LEFT OFF THIS LIST. THAN K- YOU. 62 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
AN OTHER GIFT OF THE NORTHERN ABOLITIONISTS I was a child with a gift for words. my heart longed for books, more books- notebooks and pens. My sister was the artist in the family, allowed to draw on Papa’s library walls - he had dreams of changing the world. I also longed for justice. I wanted to... Show moreAN OTHER GIFT OF THE NORTHERN ABOLITIONISTS I was a child with a gift for words. my heart longed for books, more books- notebooks and pens. My sister was the artist in the family, allowed to draw on Papa’s library walls - he had dreams of changing the world. I also longed for justice. I wanted to be a soldier for the North. They made me be a nurse because I was a girl. I didn’t have many adventures after the war, for I never recovered from the mercury that slipped like a silver snake through my body, killing off the typhoid fever - and god knows what else. I don’t know why I never married. Henry at supper was company enough, I suppose. I am not Jo, the ebullient woman I created, manager of that rambunctious and hilarious family life, and writer, besides. I am small, retiring woman in a plaid dress. My first novel was never published- they said it was too racy for a lady to have written. Too racy! Too unlady like! I have little to show for my efforts. And I’m still here, in the house in the orchard. In my room, I have two writing tables, something precious in a time when many cannotread. 60 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
For two decades now, I have been left with a weakened constitution, with my courageous mother who has been angry every day of her life. I keep writing any way. At least the mercury did not take my hair. ROSEANN LLOYD MURPHY SQUARE 61
Statue Room Chiseled black statues of women balancing baskets on their heads, marble couples embraced in a kiss, pottery friends, hand—in—hand in a circle of unity. The inner soul of Africa sold to tourists for $14.99. “I a mrather cultured,” she sneered as she eased back into her plush black... Show moreStatue Room Chiseled black statues of women balancing baskets on their heads, marble couples embraced in a kiss, pottery friends, hand—in—hand in a circle of unity. The inner soul of Africa sold to tourists for $14.99. “I a mrather cultured,” she sneered as she eased back into her plush black chair, poised in her room of African art. She sat back, giving pause, waiting for her company to admire her sitting room, to slide their fingers across the hand-crafted surfaces then recoil, afraid that their touch had smudged the finish. Her eyes quietly surveying the room glanced quickly down to the African rug when they asked, So when were youin Africa? LAURA WALDON 34 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
Daddy, I Love You She sat coiled in a corner, Her luminous skin flawless in the fluorescent shadow, Her breasts still perked and round. Her hair clung to her temples, Her clothes lay beside her, Ripped and mangled in a heap. And she watched as he tucked, zipped, and whispered, “If you tell your... Show moreDaddy, I Love You She sat coiled in a corner, Her luminous skin flawless in the fluorescent shadow, Her breasts still perked and round. Her hair clung to her temples, Her clothes lay beside her, Ripped and mangled in a heap. And she watched as he tucked, zipped, and whispered, “If you tell your mother, I’ll kill you.” He left her lying on the concrete floor of a basement, Staring at the clothes beside her. LYDIA NOGGLE MURPHY SQUARE 35 Show less
I pick my way over the bodies of colleagues who won’t answer their e-mail promptly, who refuse to recognize that the end has come and gone and that this is as god—awful good as it gets over now-limp administrators who had quite another plan for my self—improvement, higher productivity, all worked... Show moreI pick my way over the bodies of colleagues who won’t answer their e-mail promptly, who refuse to recognize that the end has come and gone and that this is as god—awful good as it gets over now-limp administrators who had quite another plan for my self—improvement, higher productivity, all worked out over lunch at a retreat in a luxe hotel in DC— if I were in a car I’d back up over them, even the ones I like because I’m tired so tired of students who write about weeding out the dead wood as if post-tenure review were an academic form of forestry or animal husbandry as if they could come late to every class never meet a deadline, expect that I am waiting by the phone at 10 p.m. just to field questions about how important the Milton paper is in their grade as a whole—and I’m thinking the only hole is the 'one I want to blast between their ears but I don’t work at the post office I don’t even belong to the NRA no, I’m just a humble intellectual with too many ironies in the fire. D. E. GREEN 38 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
DEBRA MARO Laura Jean busy legs bruised not battered happy feet high heels are pretty cookies for breakfast buttery poppy popcorn purple pancakes sneaking into mommy’s bed snuggling with daddy warm swinging higher and higher don’t forget books sissy has fun stuff barbie bitsy baby dancing on... Show moreDEBRA MARO Laura Jean busy legs bruised not battered happy feet high heels are pretty cookies for breakfast buttery poppy popcorn purple pancakes sneaking into mommy’s bed snuggling with daddy warm swinging higher and higher don’t forget books sissy has fun stuff barbie bitsy baby dancing on tabletops blowing kisses MURPHY SQUARE 39 Show less
they did not exist on the page. Nor could I always see them. The harder I looked the more my eye twitched and they scampered away; or, like paying attention to an object held out of focus, they lost their solidity and vanished. They ‘were permanent, even when I did not see them they lurked on the... Show morethey did not exist on the page. Nor could I always see them. The harder I looked the more my eye twitched and they scampered away; or, like paying attention to an object held out of focus, they lost their solidity and vanished. They ‘were permanent, even when I did not see them they lurked on the surface of my eye. I could not see them against the dark. I stared at shadows for hours, knowing they were there, but invisible, and turned to the light to see them dance their way out of my irritated gaze. They were on everything, even if I did not see them; darting across the bathroom floor, sliding through the wrinkles of my neighbors face, amongst the cement blocks, invisible in the darkness of their shadows, and on Oak Hill. They pulsated on every living thing, across the angles of the world of man, across the curves and undulations of nature, across the blue, flat sky. And I could not draw them. SCOTT 'BIBUS 48 MURPHY SQUARE Show less
