The Names I am rolled out toward the field in bundles. When I die, they will keep the strings and bury the rest. —Jonathan Slensland The Tortilla Maker the machine circles round and round like the earth sending flat breads dropping off the belt dark waitresses shimmy back and forth in front of... Show moreThe Names I am rolled out toward the field in bundles. When I die, they will keep the strings and bury the rest. —Jonathan Slensland The Tortilla Maker the machine circles round and round like the earth sending flat breads dropping off the belt dark waitresses shimmy back and forth in front of the girl who runs the machine she watches them with brown eyes watches people watch her easy as if she could do this for a hundred years at night's end slips a dusty bundle into her bag wrapped in thin paper napkin waits outside for pappa's truck —A nne Panning Show less
Louise Louise isn’t supposed to talk about Alabama. It gets her agitated. We even have a special pill for when she talks about Alabama. It’s pink, like a magnolia, Louise takes it for her Alabama-agitation. But today someone died, in Alabama. So she talked about it. And the magnolia pill stayed... Show moreLouise Louise isn’t supposed to talk about Alabama. It gets her agitated. We even have a special pill for when she talks about Alabama. It’s pink, like a magnolia, Louise takes it for her Alabama-agitation. But today someone died, in Alabama. So she talked about it. And the magnolia pill stayed locked in the cabinet. Louise pulled my nose, she likes white folks’ noses, and reported she had had a good day, in spite of Alabama. —Birgit Olsen _17._ Show less
Rusting Box A fungus red as blood eats the shine from my grandfather’s death, First the two sacks of knuckle Burst into flame, Then the nose and ears. Finally, when m y grandfather does rust through his steel box, He will rush out into the dust And break Into crumbs of grain and short grass. ... Show moreRusting Box A fungus red as blood eats the shine from my grandfather’s death, First the two sacks of knuckle Burst into flame, Then the nose and ears. Finally, when m y grandfather does rust through his steel box, He will rush out into the dust And break Into crumbs of grain and short grass. —lona!han Stensland _1o_ Show less
Preheat the Oven Three mornings after Christmas I sat next to the fireplace Glancing up from page 44 of a paperback on The theology of the women’s movement, Wondering if my very dry Christmas tree Would last Until the Epiphany, Or if it should be tossed to the backyard 0n the feast of the... Show morePreheat the Oven Three mornings after Christmas I sat next to the fireplace Glancing up from page 44 of a paperback on The theology of the women’s movement, Wondering if my very dry Christmas tree Would last Until the Epiphany, Or if it should be tossed to the backyard 0n the feast of the Slaughter of the Innocents. My two children Opened the front door To a friend, Four more children, And a paper plate offering Eight slices of fruit cake, Small pecan tarts, Round almond cookies with red sugar edges, Walnut covered butter bars topped with green maraschino cherries, And divinity fudge. Theology book down, Show suits off, Coffee pot on, We women passed plastic cups of milk And Christmas cookies, Filling the tummies of children who had once Filled our own, All united again Through fallen sugar sprinkles In a mystical body of holiday sweets. After my friend left And sugar sprinkles were wiped from Children ’s faces And [he kitchen floor, I returned to page 44, theology of the women ’5 movement. And to considerations of the falsity of original sin. And, remembering that I had made only a packaged cake for Christmas, I wondered how many cookies Adam ’s wife Had prepared for the holidays, And if Eve Could ever achieve innocence If she hadn’t baked At all. —Cth y Dalglish _14_ Show less
Sometimes I Think Sometimes I think what I think Is not thought. For instance, in the lamp/ight I have been thinking of Tombouctou, The Forbidden City and the new, The indigo hue of a Toureg‘s face And the iron hinges of many closed doors. A rose garden, pink and red 0n the dim edge of the Sahara... Show moreSometimes I Think Sometimes I think what I think Is not thought. For instance, in the lamp/ight I have been thinking of Tombouctou, The Forbidden City and the new, The indigo hue of a Toureg‘s face And the iron hinges of many closed doors. A rose garden, pink and red 0n the dim edge of the Sahara, Potsherds in the glittering quartz, Camel—eyed silhouettes Drifting toward Algiers or Ouagadougou. I have been thinking of myself thinking Atop a paddlewheeled steamer Pulled by a tug through ethereal heat Up and down the Niger That someday I would be thinking And ought to take notes. On the roof a woman cooked chop, Bitterballs and rice in a black pot. Below, twenty men with machineguns Leaned against cotton bales and dozed. The sun set like a red dream On a mosque made of poles and dried mud. A woman with yellow breasts Waded into the river offering two halves Of a gourd brimming with milk. The river swirled in shades of green and blue. I was thinking I was happy. But this is not thought. —John Mitchell _11_ Show less
Brute Fandango The piano masher has been banging his head Against the strings, wires So thin they cut the air into tunes. He brings a big brick to the podium and threatens To eat it, to speak harsh words With red dust between his impossible teeth. He likens himself to the box, the intermingled... Show moreBrute Fandango The piano masher has been banging his head Against the strings, wires So thin they cut the air into tunes. He brings a big brick to the podium and threatens To eat it, to speak harsh words With red dust between his impossible teeth. He likens himself to the box, the intermingled Fingers an invisible strings, his foot Ready at the pedal, to muffle or loosen the chords. He brings the brick down on the keys and presses The pedal. The audience is stunned. He rises, flicks out his swallowtails, and runs. —John Mitchell _27_ Show less
The Waiting As he sits— occupied in mind by functions and formulae: Part of him f l o w s with a different; fathomless t, backing up upon itself, reversing. n e r r u c melody lies within him, To break free . . . he dreams. warmth of his conscienceness inebriates him into Through the narrows, he... Show moreThe Waiting As he sits— occupied in mind by functions and formulae: Part of him f l o w s with a different; fathomless t, backing up upon itself, reversing. n e r r u c melody lies within him, To break free . . . he dreams. warmth of his conscienceness inebriates him into Through the narrows, he systematically navigates . . . recounting earlier recessions . . . ——Chri: LeBourgeois There is another . . The waiting— waiting— The obscurity: slowly; retreats. Show less
Ballroom Dancing John is in my dance class. We dance on Monday nights, Seven to nine. We’ve learned The Waltz, Foxtrot, even the Cha—Cha. John is my favorite dance Partner. Together we slide And glide. We laugh when we Dance together. Sometimes he Squeezes my hand tightly or caresses My back when... Show moreBallroom Dancing John is in my dance class. We dance on Monday nights, Seven to nine. We’ve learned The Waltz, Foxtrot, even the Cha—Cha. John is my favorite dance Partner. Together we slide And glide. We laugh when we Dance together. Sometimes he Squeezes my hand tightly or caresses My back when we’re in social dance position. John took me out one night After class. I drove and he Paid. I talked about myself. John listened. John didn ’t come to class One week. I missed class the Next week. But the third week we Danced again and during the breaks in the Music, John held my hand. —Amy Thompson _22_ Show less
Grace I was six When Sister Mathilda first explained About grace And the thimble, And about how it was okay To have only a little bit of grace If you were small As long as you were full, Right to the top. I wondered if grace Really was just like water. It sounded like it was. So I spent the next... Show moreGrace I was six When Sister Mathilda first explained About grace And the thimble, And about how it was okay To have only a little bit of grace If you were small As long as you were full, Right to the top. I wondered if grace Really was just like water. It sounded like it was. So I spent the next few years trying to get full And walking very straight and slow To make sure I never spilled Grace on the living room rug. But by the time I was twelve, And in the seventh grade, I wasn‘t small anymore, And I began to worry Because Sister Francis said I was an adult and no adults Should want to be thimbles, And all twelve year olds were tea cups, And none of them was full. And when I was in high school Sister Mary Martin Anne Told me about the link Between talent and grace and people’s minds, And she said even Einstein’s brain Was underdeveloped, And so was mine, And that I was a drinking glass And if I was so nearly full Why wasn't I overflowing? I wanted to remind her About all those years Of walking straight and slow, And about not spilling on the rug, But she was a biology teacher And we were in the lab, And all the floors were made of acrylic tile And she really didn 't care If anyone spilled. _29_ Show less
Once, all of the cousins were talking about how Selma never got married. Whenever we asked our parents, they just shushed us and told us to mind our own business. So we decided to ask her. We were all at her house, probably for Thanksgiving because I remember the frost patterns on the window. It... Show moreOnce, all of the cousins were talking about how Selma never got married. Whenever we asked our parents, they just shushed us and told us to mind our own business. So we decided to ask her. We were all at her house, probably for Thanksgiving because I remember the frost patterns on the window. It was probably Scott, but it may have been me, who marched right up to her in the kitchen where she was mixing up a pitcher of pink lemonade for us. “Aunt Selma, why didn’t you ever get married?" At first she seemed a little bit embarassed, then she just said, “Because I never found the right man,” which seemed to make a lot of sense to us, so we let the subject drop. I started thinking about it later in my bed that night and wondered how she could know if any man was ever the right one or just another of the wrongs. There were times when l was convinced that she had a secret crush on Lawrence Welk, after all, he was German and probably a Lutheran to boot. I knew for a fact that this was the only reason she finally got a television set and placed it inconspicuously under the Boston fern in the living room. She watched Lawrence faithfully every Sunday night and proclaimed that everything else that found its way to her screen was the devil’s work. Later, though, she admitted that Little House on the Prairie had some value and would watch that from time to time. As we got older, the treasures of the first floor began to lose their intrigue and we began speculating about what was kept upstairs. As far as we knew, no one except Aunt Selma had ever been up there and we assumed that she had something to hide, Ghosts of old boyfriends, an exotic animal and chests full of gold and jewelry found places in our stories. Scott insisted that there was a dead baby and that he‘d seen it. The little girls believed him and were horrified, but the rest of us remained skeptical. One Saturday, Aunt Selma was driving us home from catechism and had to stop at her house to pick up something. Scott and I followed her in and gasped when she opened the ominous door to the upstairs and disappeared. We were in the middle of a whispering argument when Aunt Selma reappeared and asked us what we were fighting about. This time I know it was Scott, because I remember my own mortification. “Aunt Selma, what do you have upstairs?” I watched her face closely to see if it would betray any shock, fear or guilt. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when she remained perfectly calm. l was already walking to the car when I heard from behind me, “Can we go up there?" I followed Scott some steps behind on the enclosed staircase and was surprised by the amount of light that erupted at the top of the steps. We walked slowly and carefully in the hallway as if it were covered with antique china saucers. The first room was filled with boxes containing photographs, magazines and newspapers from another world. Selma was leafing through them, explaining that she’d kept these from the two years she’d lived in Chicago, 1927, ’28. Scott had run ahead to the next room and I caught him at the doorway of the southeast room. Inside, tucked behind more boxes of photos was a lovely pink baby crib that matched perfectly the mahogany four-poster bed in Selma’s bedroom. Scott nudged me then turned and darted down the stairs. I stepped over boxes of memories to get closer to the crib. Sunlight showered onv to the crisp pink crinoline and it shimmered like shards of frozen pink lemonade. l peered. inside and wasn't at all surprised not to find a dead baby. The tiny pillow was the color of milk and had the hush of a dent in its center. “I slept in that when l was a baby.” i jumped and turned to see Selma in the doorway. “Mother and Dad slept in the big bed. Since I was the oldest I got to keep the crib.” Back in the car, Scott poked me smugly. “It was empty," I whispered. “What?” “The crib. All that was in it was a little white pillow.” “So. I bet she moved it just before we went 'up.” I rolled my eyes and didn’t talk the rest of the way home. Later, I told my mother what had happened while we were doing the dishes. She seemed sur- prised at first, asking a lot of questions about what I saw, and then turned wistful, gazing out of the window forgetting about her arms up to the elbows in hills of white bubbles. —.Iulie Siege _19_ Show less
Carlyle Drives through town in the big lumber truck, waving to everyone. Hair a wooly black mat with sawdust. Tight faded t—shirt, logo peeling off. He builds until lunch. Eats with the married workers at Stu’s Rainbow Inn. Large round burgers as big as the paper plates. Two pickles, Waterthin... Show moreCarlyle Drives through town in the big lumber truck, waving to everyone. Hair a wooly black mat with sawdust. Tight faded t—shirt, logo peeling off. He builds until lunch. Eats with the married workers at Stu’s Rainbow Inn. Large round burgers as big as the paper plates. Two pickles, Waterthin malts. He laughs. Gossips out of yellow chipped teeth. End of the day, he walks home. His parents’ home. Still there after so many years. The same route he walked to school. Hands black, pine shavings under his collar. After supper, he calls Becky. She won’t see him anymore because. You wear out your welcome, she says. He only wants Becky. He walks up- town to the bar. Ruthie knows, uncaps a bottle of Bud. Cool white smoke slips out like a genie. Around his hot red face. Shot of Cuervo? He nods. White or gold? 0h, gold! he says. He wears the same day’s work clothes. _AME Panning _25_ Show less
l l Augsburg Collage 11v, mm: Svmdrup Library ’i'ulmmrzolis, MN 55454 MURPHY SQUARE This magazine is dedicated to the old trees uprooted and bulldozed to make way for the new building along Riverside Avenue. —Anne Panning Volume XIV 1988 Augsburg College Minneapolis, Minn.
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As I mentioned, I was determined to get better, and I did. One might find this surprising—one might expect that parents would have been far more on their guard with a "madman" on the roads. But such carts had apparently become quite popular, and as the weather grew warmer the roads were dotted... Show moreAs I mentioned, I was determined to get better, and I did. One might find this surprising—one might expect that parents would have been far more on their guard with a "madman" on the roads. But such carts had apparently become quite popular, and as the weather grew warmer the roads were dotted with bicycles hauling some rather anxious children. Consequently I had ample opportunity to perfect my technique, and by the end of April I had become, if I do say so myself, quite an ace. Through diligent practice I had learned to detach the carts without those on the bicycles noticing that they had lost anything. I had even learned to maneuver the cart around once it was detached, so that I could drive it to some side street and leave it there, child and cart intact. By the end of April the mortality rate for children in carts had dropped to zero. Even the papers had gone so far as to give me a nickname: The Guillotine. I was proud of that name. It echoed of something clean and quick, and it was snooty enough to raise me above the multitude of bloodletters in this country who had no sense of style about what they did. And I deserved that ranking. Once while I was driving late at night, simply for pleasure, I saw in a back yard a bicycle-cart combination. I stopped the car and snuck into the back yard. For nearly two hours I studied the assembly to see what might be the best way to strike it, so that it could be removed with nothing more than a snick, like clipping off the end of a cigar. Sometimes, late at night, I would drive around the city to places where I had left carts. On oc- casion I would pass a cart that I did not remember leaving, but at the time I made nothing of it. Who can recall every detail of one’s life? I was content to let the triumph of my work wash over me. The carts were my trophies. On one particular street carts lined both sides, and I would slow- ly drive past them like a warrior passing his troops after a victory. Often I would get out of the car and pat a few chickens and tickle others, just to let them know they were important to me. In the cool thin nights of early spring their laughter would tumble through the air, doing its own mad dance until the trees would shake with glee. One day in the early summer, I achieved what I felt to be absolute perfection. I saw a man and woman, each with a cart trailing behind them with a child in it. I drove ahead stopped the car, idling while I waited for them to pass. Soon they came into view. They were riding in tandem, the man slightly behind the woman. I could feel the excitement building in me, for in order to do what I wanted to do I would have to be precise without error. Finally they passed in front of me. I accelerated perfectly and struck the cart behind the man’s bike. The cart came off as if I had just snipped a lock of hair. With a slight wiggle of the car the cart turned around so that it rolled in lovely unison with the car. Occasionally an arm or leg flailed up from the cart, and at one point a face peered over the top of the cart at me. I smiled. We might have been able to drive forever. I finally left the cart by the side of the road and drove off to find the same couple. I laughed out loud when I saw them. The man and woman were smiling as they talked back and forth with each other. They, at least, had noticed nothing out of the ordinary. I might have just left them alone, save that that couple’s position in the tandem had changed. Now the woman lagged behind a little. I drove ahead and found a spot to wait. When they passed, I picked off the second can. It was, of course, perfect. After that I retired from that phase of my work. For one thing I had become bored; there was really nothing better I could accomplish. For another the streets were becoming cluttered with carts, all the children waiting patiently to be found. Perhaps it was rather puritannical of me, but I was beginning to feel guilty about indulging in wretched excess. Still, the roads seemed to be filled with more bicycles than ever, so many of them toting carts behind them. I am a sociable enough man to feel flattered by all those invitations. I am not one to ruin a party. I began to stalk—not in preparation for any assault, but simply for the pleasure of the stalk itself. That was far more exciting, because I was exchanging speed and surprise for stealth, and the smallest slip on my part could put me in the public eye. My plan now was to drive up behind a cart, slowly, more slowly, closer and closer, until my bumper was within a hair’s-breadth of touching the cart. It was fascinating to watch the faces of the children as I drew closer. At first they would look puzzled, but as the fender edged nearer their mouths would begin to quiver and their eyes nearly pop out of their heads. As the child prepared to scream, I would back away. But sometimes the child stayed calm, or, as often happend, the parent wore headphones, so I could get as close as possible and trail the cart until the bicyclist was nearly home. I wonder what will become of those children as they grow older. Once after I had trailed a father and his son I waited on the street while he lifted his child out of the cart. The child soundly whacked the father across his head with a toy. _5_ Show less
August the cold coffee day moves slow, shimmers the air, the sun won 't go down. Sweat trickles rent baby powdered thighs, while the fan shakes its head No no no. Your magazine-slick I love yous slide, ice over ice, and clink, into the gin that sweats smoke rings on the table. This summer/o... Show moreAugust the cold coffee day moves slow, shimmers the air, the sun won 't go down. Sweat trickles rent baby powdered thighs, while the fan shakes its head No no no. Your magazine-slick I love yous slide, ice over ice, and clink, into the gin that sweats smoke rings on the table. This summer/o vepaperback romance is reaching an autumnish dirge. It crunches like locusts under your feet, and August falls with its stars. —Birgit Olsen _23_ Show less
Get Thee Behind Me In early spring the wind gathers loose dirt and snow, and the air tumbles like shattered glass. During this time I think of something I once learned—or thought I learned—a long time ago in a physics class. As temperature rises, molecules wake up and dance. I enjoy the thought... Show moreGet Thee Behind Me In early spring the wind gathers loose dirt and snow, and the air tumbles like shattered glass. During this time I think of something I once learned—or thought I learned—a long time ago in a physics class. As temperature rises, molecules wake up and dance. I enjoy the thought that Nature, the consummate believer in balance and order, can also smile at entropy, since in the spring my own mind dances. It is like a backsliding mystic on a bed of hot coals. As to what can happen then, I can only make my best guess. One should only come to expect whatever can be expected under a whimsical sun. So it was that late in March I was driving home from my work, along a parkway that wound beside the Mississippi River. The ruddy light from the low sun colored the air so that it looked like cedar water from the lakes of New Jersey where I grew up—a sparkling reddish-brown, like thinned molasses. Ahead of me the sun shone off of the long coppery hair of a woman riding her bike. But it was not the bike or the woman that caught my attention. Attached to the back of the bike was a wide two-wheeled open cart. Laying bundled in the cart, almost as stiff and as blank- faced as a mummy, was a child. As I looked at the child I thought of a little farm boy from my childhood in New Jersey. He would carefully pack into his bright red wagon the corn and tomatoes and peppers his father would let him take, and ride from house to house along the roads that led to the Delaware Bay, selling what he could. Sometimes he even brought brightly-colored Zinnias or snapdragons. The days the boy would visit always seemed deliciously slow. I passed the woman, pulled off onto a side and waited. Shortly I saw her, head held high like an ostrich. She pedaled past me, and I tried to time my move as precisely as I could, but it was, after all, the first attempt. I accelerated, hoping to detach the cart from the back of the bike. One might perhaps think that “detach” is a euphemism, but I am not a butcher or even an unpleasant man. Detach is precisely what I wanted to do. In the moment before I struck the cart I envisioned the woman climbing off of her bike in her back yard, and suddenly becoming agitated as she wondered on what street was her child parked and waiting. But I was, unfortunately, out of practice, never having done this sort of thing before. The cart was wrenched off the back of the bike, and the bike twisted around so that the woman spun and fell hard to the ground. Panicked, I drove off, trying to waggle the car enough to dislodge the cart from my fender. But it was pressed sideways into the car. The wheels dragged and bumped until the cart flipped. I was determined to do better the next time. That night I watched the news on television and saw a reporter try to interview the woman on the bike. The reporter had chosen to wear a peculiar outfit, a Windbreaker brightly colored in blue and white, with a large block of red covering his chest and stomach. The woman stood next to him, her face stony and her eyes thick and dull, like wet sand. I felt sad for her that she had to be interviewed by someone dressed for a carnival. While he talked to the camera—with admirable sincerity, I thought—the woman slowly looked at him up and down and grimaced. She was obviously not listening to what he was saying. He suddenly turned to her and put his microphone before her face. “Have you heard anything from the police yet about where your child might be?” That surprised me. It had never occurred to me that no one would have found the cart yet. For a moment I was tempted to call the police and tell them. But I was distracted by the television screen. The woman was looking at the reporter with horror now. “You’ve got blood on your coat,” she said, as if she were telling a secret. The reporter looked more annoyed than anything else, as if he were afraid his interview might collapse on the spot. “Ma’am, do you think your child might still be alive?” He was, to be sure, determined. “That's blood on your coat," she said more loudly. She grabbed the jacket and ran her fingers gently across the front. “Yes,” she breathed, and looked at him with her eyes full of wonder. “It’s blood. You have blood all over the front of your coat.” He sighed. “Thank you, Ma’am.” This was clearly going to be an interesting time. _5_ Show less
