by Joanne Lowery
Finally, after ten appeals in twenty-five years,
he is proclaimed innocent and set free.
Because of test tubes and microscopic juices
he is believed. Now his words are called true.
The girl, he did not rape and kill that girl.
It was all a mistake of justice and procedure.
Look at him weep in the arms of his mother.
Reporters want him to describe his happiness
in a metaphor that makes twenty-five years disappear.
How he woke up every day to an orange suit
and pig slop and unborn children is redeemed
by today’s passage through the prison gate.
Look at the happy man cry.
You too can feel that swell in your chest
where your heart lives caged in ribs.
You can forgive busy people their careless mistakes
and tell yourself you are stronger for all
you suffered, that what you know
about yourself is what really matters.
If you look at today’s sky, it can be bluer
for you than for any of the people who walk by
in couture clothes, jabbering on BlackBerrys.
On a happiness scale of one to ten, eleven
does not mean a freed man gets to eat a steak dinner.
To be off the charts does not require
that you forgive and forget most of your life.
We all share this same day—the guilty and the exonerated.
Later, he thinks about how good that hamburger tasted.
Joanne Lowery’s poems have appeared in many literary magazines, including Birmingham Poetry Review, 5 AM, Passages North, Atlanta Review, and Poetry East. She lives in Michigan.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
THE YEAR OF IRAN
by Bill Costley
[newspoem]
One ambassador in Washington said
even he was taken aback to hear John Hannah,
VPOTUS CHENEY’s national security adviser,
call this “the year of Iran” in which
a U.S. attack is a real possibility. Hannah
denies the quotation
marks.
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.
[newspoem]
One ambassador in Washington said
even he was taken aback to hear John Hannah,
VPOTUS CHENEY’s national security adviser,
call this “the year of Iran” in which
a U.S. attack is a real possibility. Hannah
denies the quotation
marks.
Bill Costley serves on the Steering Committee of the San Francisco chapter of the National Writers Union.
Friday, September 28, 2007
HOUSEWORK
by David Chorlton
From the safety of our breakfast we observe
a line of monks passing
like fire across the television screen
so early in the day they could
be the remnants of a dream
in which we sought an image
to express a wish too easily
suppressed: that stillness in the face
of force can bring
it to surrender. Then there are clothes to be washed,
though none are so red
as the robes in the procession,
and the routine to pursue with those chores
that continue no matter who rules us.
Dust, sweep, wash the dishes, water
the plants and put seed out for the doves
who don’t know they’re a symbol of peace.
The work is neutral, and deflects
from issues of the spirit or from thinking
about how best to show
resistance. Fold the laundry, visit the store,
watch other people as they keep their views
inside themselves. Nobody wears red today
in my city. Nobody is marching. Nobody
has to clean a bloodstain from the pavement
where it pooled around a lost pair of sandals.
David Chorlton lives in Phoenix, writes and paints and keeps track of local wildlife. His newest book, The Porous Desert, was published this summer by FutureCycle Press, and testifies to his having internalised the desert during the past twenty-nine years. Some of his art work can be seen at http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com/.
From the safety of our breakfast we observe
a line of monks passing
like fire across the television screen
so early in the day they could
be the remnants of a dream
in which we sought an image
to express a wish too easily
suppressed: that stillness in the face
of force can bring
it to surrender. Then there are clothes to be washed,
though none are so red
as the robes in the procession,
and the routine to pursue with those chores
that continue no matter who rules us.
Dust, sweep, wash the dishes, water
the plants and put seed out for the doves
who don’t know they’re a symbol of peace.
The work is neutral, and deflects
from issues of the spirit or from thinking
about how best to show
resistance. Fold the laundry, visit the store,
watch other people as they keep their views
inside themselves. Nobody wears red today
in my city. Nobody is marching. Nobody
has to clean a bloodstain from the pavement
where it pooled around a lost pair of sandals.
David Chorlton lives in Phoenix, writes and paints and keeps track of local wildlife. His newest book, The Porous Desert, was published this summer by FutureCycle Press, and testifies to his having internalised the desert during the past twenty-nine years. Some of his art work can be seen at http://www.davidchorlton.mysite.com/.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
MAY WE BE FREE OF TORTURE
by Mary Saracino
30,000 maroon robes wafting in the wake of oppression,
red tongues of wisdom chanting, “May we be free of torture.”
30,000 voices singing, “May there be peace in hearts, peace in minds.”
30,000 monks flowing like a river of justice through the crowded streets
of Myanmar . 30,000 prayerful hands pressed palm to palm
in dissent. 30,000 warriors of compassion supplicating, “May kindness
spread around the world.” 30,000 seed-syllables scattered
in the waiting wind. May 30,000 pleas ripen, bear fruit,
fragrance our hearts with wisdom. May 30,000 songs of protest
instill hope in minds paralyzed with fear. May fierce witness
transform violence, sow peace, liberate our spirits from ignorant inaction.
May 30,000 echoing footsteps awaken us from separation,
proclaim this noble truth: this blood, these broken bones, those bullets
are no illusion. May all beings be free of torture. May all torturers
be free of hatred & despair. May all beings everywhere be free
from suffering & cruelty. May all beings everywhere know lasting peace.
Mary Saracino is a novelist, poet and memoir writer who lives in Denver, CO. Her most recent novel, The Singing of Swans, was a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards finalist. For more information visit www.pearlsong.com or www.marysaracino.com.
30,000 maroon robes wafting in the wake of oppression,
red tongues of wisdom chanting, “May we be free of torture.”
30,000 voices singing, “May there be peace in hearts, peace in minds.”
30,000 monks flowing like a river of justice through the crowded streets
of Myanmar . 30,000 prayerful hands pressed palm to palm
in dissent. 30,000 warriors of compassion supplicating, “May kindness
spread around the world.” 30,000 seed-syllables scattered
in the waiting wind. May 30,000 pleas ripen, bear fruit,
fragrance our hearts with wisdom. May 30,000 songs of protest
instill hope in minds paralyzed with fear. May fierce witness
transform violence, sow peace, liberate our spirits from ignorant inaction.
May 30,000 echoing footsteps awaken us from separation,
proclaim this noble truth: this blood, these broken bones, those bullets
are no illusion. May all beings be free of torture. May all torturers
be free of hatred & despair. May all beings everywhere be free
from suffering & cruelty. May all beings everywhere know lasting peace.
Mary Saracino is a novelist, poet and memoir writer who lives in Denver, CO. Her most recent novel, The Singing of Swans, was a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards finalist. For more information visit www.pearlsong.com or www.marysaracino.com.
MY SHOWERHEAD SINGS
by Dave Seter
My showerhead sings some mornings,
releases water confined long underground
in mazes of cylinders cankered with rust.
We city dwellers have great appetites,
lake the faraway rivers, fill the cylinders.
Pressure builds in chambers of government.
Pipe this water. Beneath stone-vaulted ceilings
senators squawk, stonewall legislation
resonant with questions.
Who owns this tree, that river,
which stone? Ashes to ashes, dust
to dust and mineralized rain, things
have no voice, but some mornings it's rain
makes the showerhead sing, rapid, elusive,
its silver running to drain.
Dave Seter was born in Chicago. A registered civil engineer, he now lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area. His poems have appeared in various publications including Karamu, Blue Collar Review, Bear River Review, and Switched-on Gutenberg.
My showerhead sings some mornings,
releases water confined long underground
in mazes of cylinders cankered with rust.
We city dwellers have great appetites,
lake the faraway rivers, fill the cylinders.
Pressure builds in chambers of government.
Pipe this water. Beneath stone-vaulted ceilings
senators squawk, stonewall legislation
resonant with questions.
Who owns this tree, that river,
which stone? Ashes to ashes, dust
to dust and mineralized rain, things
have no voice, but some mornings it's rain
makes the showerhead sing, rapid, elusive,
its silver running to drain.
Dave Seter was born in Chicago. A registered civil engineer, he now lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area. His poems have appeared in various publications including Karamu, Blue Collar Review, Bear River Review, and Switched-on Gutenberg.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
GLOBAL DIMMING
by Joe Paddock
It is said
that those smokestack particulates
that rise to dirty our skies
and cloud our lungs
form a second sooty shield above
that one of gasses that hold in heat,
that flatulence risen from
our zipping around down here
in the throes of fear and desire.
It’s said
that our second shield,
formed of coal-fire’s black bits and other
dirt-bucket stuff, does us some good
down here. Though dimming
our dear old globe a little,
it fends off a deeper heat
sulking mean above,
easing some the simmering of
this strange stew we now
find ourselves in.
Joe Paddock is a poet, oral historian, and environmental writer who lives in Litchfield, Minnesota. His most recent books include the biography of wilderness preservationist Ernest Oberholtzer, Keeper of the Wild, and a collection of poems, A Sort of Honey.
It is said
that those smokestack particulates
that rise to dirty our skies
and cloud our lungs
form a second sooty shield above
that one of gasses that hold in heat,
that flatulence risen from
our zipping around down here
in the throes of fear and desire.
It’s said
that our second shield,
formed of coal-fire’s black bits and other
dirt-bucket stuff, does us some good
down here. Though dimming
our dear old globe a little,
it fends off a deeper heat
sulking mean above,
easing some the simmering of
this strange stew we now
find ourselves in.
Joe Paddock is a poet, oral historian, and environmental writer who lives in Litchfield, Minnesota. His most recent books include the biography of wilderness preservationist Ernest Oberholtzer, Keeper of the Wild, and a collection of poems, A Sort of Honey.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
50-30=20 (YEARS)
by Katherine West
There is a picnic table
There is a liter of wine
There is a pipe
There is bad spaghetti and
not enough of it
The bread is burnt
The music loud Led Zeppelin
Everyone's hair is blonde
with black roots
Everyone wears
a dirty t-shirt
big silver jewelry and
too much of it
It is Monday but
No one is at work or
protesting the war
Everyone plays
with hoola-hoops and
fire
No one gets burned
Everyone tells jokes
No one listens
Everyone tells stories Mom
with Alcohol Dementia at 80
can't remember yesterday
Everyone says
she's enlightened
with her Eternal Now
No one cries
Everyone eats ice cream
No one says "no"
Everyone dances
No one knows
my name
Katherine West is a poet presently living in northern Colorado and teaching Creative Writing at the local community college, museum, and Naropa University, which is in nearby Boulder, Colorado.
There is a picnic table
There is a liter of wine
There is a pipe
There is bad spaghetti and
not enough of it
The bread is burnt
The music loud Led Zeppelin
Everyone's hair is blonde
with black roots
Everyone wears
a dirty t-shirt
big silver jewelry and
too much of it
It is Monday but
No one is at work or
protesting the war
Everyone plays
with hoola-hoops and
fire
No one gets burned
Everyone tells jokes
No one listens
Everyone tells stories Mom
with Alcohol Dementia at 80
can't remember yesterday
Everyone says
she's enlightened
with her Eternal Now
No one cries
Everyone eats ice cream
No one says "no"
Everyone dances
No one knows
my name
Katherine West is a poet presently living in northern Colorado and teaching Creative Writing at the local community college, museum, and Naropa University, which is in nearby Boulder, Colorado.
Monday, September 24, 2007
MAN SURVIVES FALL FROM 17TH FLOOR
by Rochelle Ratner
He'd been out with friends. He was drunk. He was in a Minneapolis Hyatt. He was running down a long hallway with a double-paned floor to ceiling window at the end. His fall was cushioned by a roof overhang. She, too, is on the 17th floor. But if she jumped from the small window on her left it would be because she's sober. Because she lives here.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Leads (Otoliths Press, 2007), Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
He'd been out with friends. He was drunk. He was in a Minneapolis Hyatt. He was running down a long hallway with a double-paned floor to ceiling window at the end. His fall was cushioned by a roof overhang. She, too, is on the 17th floor. But if she jumped from the small window on her left it would be because she's sober. Because she lives here.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Leads (Otoliths Press, 2007), Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
PICASSO, 1963, AT THE BOSTON MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS
by Liane Ellison Norman
Painted the year our son was born, the year
after we
married, the year the Buddhist monk set himself
on fire,
in Saigon, Vietnam, two warriors, part ancient
Roman, part
horse, going at each other in the midst of green
fields—
in the background a church—trampling
a mother
and a screaming infant with a hoof that looks
like a hand.
Liane Ellison Norman won the Wisteria Prize for 2006, awarded by Paper Journey Press, for her poem "What There'd Been." She has also been published in the journal Rune, in Voices From the Attic (Carlow University Press, 2007), in the Pittsburgh Post Gazette and Pittsburgh City Paper. Her first book of poetry, The Duration of Grief, was published in 2005 by Smoke & Mirrors Press, which also published her novel, Stitches in Air: A Novel About Mozart's Mother (2001). A biography, Hammer of Justice: Molly Rush and the Plowshares Eight (1990) and Simpleton Story: A Fairy Tale For a Nuclear Age (1985) were published by PPI Books.
for Andy, September 3, 2007
Painted the year our son was born, the year
after we
married, the year the Buddhist monk set himself
on fire,
in Saigon, Vietnam, two warriors, part ancient
Roman, part
horse, going at each other in the midst of green
fields—
in the background a church—trampling
a mother
and a screaming infant with a hoof that looks
like a hand.
Liane Ellison Norman won the Wisteria Prize for 2006, awarded by Paper Journey Press, for her poem "What There'd Been." She has also been published in the journal Rune, in Voices From the Attic (Carlow University Press, 2007), in the Pittsburgh Post Gazette and Pittsburgh City Paper. Her first book of poetry, The Duration of Grief, was published in 2005 by Smoke & Mirrors Press, which also published her novel, Stitches in Air: A Novel About Mozart's Mother (2001). A biography, Hammer of Justice: Molly Rush and the Plowshares Eight (1990) and Simpleton Story: A Fairy Tale For a Nuclear Age (1985) were published by PPI Books.
A WILE E. COYOTE ROCKET
by Frank Sloan
warm, muggy night.
Todd Tihart safely home in bed.
all his aides and analysts and speech writers
resting comfortably on their thick mattresses
and the cost of health insurance for working people
zooming crazily like a Wile E. Coyote rocket.
the wife and I can’t sleep.
the walls of their new economy close in on us.
we find it hard to breathe in peace.
all the congressmen, home in their bed dreaming of their generous pensions,
either don’t see our don’t care about the trap they set for us.
we catch the wail of an ambulance slashing through the night.
some poor soul crashed on the highway and headed for bankruptcy, if he isn’t dead.
some poor slob
on his way home from a second job at the paint factory,
slaving his health away
for his four kids and a tankful of gas and a worn out mattress.
Frank Sloan lives and writes in a small shack near the heart of the empire. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he believes it’s a heart that beats worth rescuing.
warm, muggy night.
Todd Tihart safely home in bed.
all his aides and analysts and speech writers
resting comfortably on their thick mattresses
and the cost of health insurance for working people
zooming crazily like a Wile E. Coyote rocket.
the wife and I can’t sleep.
the walls of their new economy close in on us.
we find it hard to breathe in peace.
all the congressmen, home in their bed dreaming of their generous pensions,
either don’t see our don’t care about the trap they set for us.
we catch the wail of an ambulance slashing through the night.
some poor soul crashed on the highway and headed for bankruptcy, if he isn’t dead.
some poor slob
on his way home from a second job at the paint factory,
slaving his health away
for his four kids and a tankful of gas and a worn out mattress.
Frank Sloan lives and writes in a small shack near the heart of the empire. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he believes it’s a heart that beats worth rescuing.
Friday, September 21, 2007
CONFOUNDED
by Barbara Daniels
Shadow of a woman
in a glass porch,
white dress gone rose
in the sunset,
light burning up from a red porch swing,
vines curled like snakes
through holes in the screens.
Why do I hear the moon whisper,
hear a dying animal?
Is it the woman zookeeper killed yesterday
by a jaguar?
My eye is a clock,
my mouth stretched wide
to the point of erasure.
Is it the bomb at the mosque?
The explosive detonated Thursday in Ramadi?
Army Staff Sgt. Joshua R. Hager, 29, of Broomfield, Colorado
Army Pfc. Travis W. Buford, 23, of Galveston, Texas
Army Pfc. Rowan D. Walter, 25, of Winnetka, California
The moon bulges, gibbous. The jaguar
shot. The woman
dead. My student raises
her hand. “Like you,
I am obsessed with death,”
she tells me.
In the front of the classroom
I am an ice cliff, all austerity,
all betrayal, confounded
by sorrow, holding
yesterday’s newspaper.
Barbara Daniels' book, Rose Fever, will be published by WordTech Press in 2008. The Woman Who Tries to Believe, her chapbook, won the Quentin R. Howard Prize and was published by Wind Publications. Her poems have appeared in The Louisville Review, Natural Bridge, Tattoo Highway, and many other journals. Barbara Daniels received two Individual Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
Shadow of a woman
in a glass porch,
white dress gone rose
in the sunset,
light burning up from a red porch swing,
vines curled like snakes
through holes in the screens.
Why do I hear the moon whisper,
hear a dying animal?
Is it the woman zookeeper killed yesterday
by a jaguar?
My eye is a clock,
my mouth stretched wide
to the point of erasure.
Is it the bomb at the mosque?
The explosive detonated Thursday in Ramadi?
Army Staff Sgt. Joshua R. Hager, 29, of Broomfield, Colorado
Army Pfc. Travis W. Buford, 23, of Galveston, Texas
Army Pfc. Rowan D. Walter, 25, of Winnetka, California
The moon bulges, gibbous. The jaguar
shot. The woman
dead. My student raises
her hand. “Like you,
I am obsessed with death,”
she tells me.
In the front of the classroom
I am an ice cliff, all austerity,
all betrayal, confounded
by sorrow, holding
yesterday’s newspaper.
Barbara Daniels' book, Rose Fever, will be published by WordTech Press in 2008. The Woman Who Tries to Believe, her chapbook, won the Quentin R. Howard Prize and was published by Wind Publications. Her poems have appeared in The Louisville Review, Natural Bridge, Tattoo Highway, and many other journals. Barbara Daniels received two Individual Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
OBAMA NATION
by Earl J. Wilcox
Presidential candidate, Senator Obama, arrived
in town today, an entourage of media twerps
tagging along to swell the crowd, catch a glimpse
of a major voice in this next election cycle.
Obama spoke at the Freedom Center, now an
African-American church but decades ago a
center of activities in the Civil Rights Movement.
In those days, the Freedom Center housed the First
Baptist Church---lily white, angst-driven Old South
folks who did their fair share you can bet to prevent
Obama’s predecessors from eating at the Woolworth
lunch counter just down the street, about a block away.
The First Baptist Church moved to the suburbs.
Freedom Center remains near its roots.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Presidential candidate, Senator Obama, arrived
in town today, an entourage of media twerps
tagging along to swell the crowd, catch a glimpse
of a major voice in this next election cycle.
Obama spoke at the Freedom Center, now an
African-American church but decades ago a
center of activities in the Civil Rights Movement.
In those days, the Freedom Center housed the First
Baptist Church---lily white, angst-driven Old South
folks who did their fair share you can bet to prevent
Obama’s predecessors from eating at the Woolworth
lunch counter just down the street, about a block away.
The First Baptist Church moved to the suburbs.
Freedom Center remains near its roots.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
SOME WOMEN JUST GIVE UP
by Diane Kendig
Some women just give up—they refuse to bleach their skin or straighten their hair and end up looking so African-American. That’s just not me.
Some women just give up—they refuse rhinoplasty or highlighting and end up looking so Jewish. That’s just not me.
I know. Like some girls I know just give up. They refuse to give up meals and embrace their anorexia and like, they end up looking so fat, like my sister, who’s 107 pounds now.
Well some women just give up and refuse to have children. They end up looking more like a godmother than a grandmother. That’s just not me.
Some women just give up—they refuse to curl their hair or streak it and end up looking more like a Native American than a real American. That’s just not me!
Some women just live up—they refuse to look hard enough for a man and end up looking like a Lesbian. That’s just not me!
Some women just give up—they refuse electrolysis of facial hair and end up looking more like Frida Kahlo than Diego Rivera. That’s just not me!
Some women just give up—they refuse facelifts and botox and end up revealing their emotions. That’s just not me!
Some editors just give up. They refuse to separate advertising from content and end up looking more like a pimp than a publisher. That’s not for me!
Diane Kendig, a poet, writer, and translator, is author of three chapbooks, most recently Greatest Hits, 1978-2000 (Pudding House). Her poetry and nonfiction have appeared in the journals Colere, Ekphrasis, Minnesota Review, Mid-America, U.S. 1 and Slant, among others, as well as the anthologies Broken Land: Poems of Brooklyn and Those Winter Sundays: Female Academics and their Working-Class Parents. A recipient of two Ohio Arts Council Fellowships in Poetry, a Fulbright lectureship in translation, and a Yaddo Fellowship, she currently lives in Lynn, Massachusetts. Her website is at http://dianekendig.com/.
Some women just give up—they refuse to wear makeup or color their hair and end up looking more like a grandmother than a mother. That’s just not me! --Lynda, 52 in “Good Looks: Beauty, Fitness, News, Deals, Trends," Good Housekeeping, May 2007.
Some women just give up—they refuse to bleach their skin or straighten their hair and end up looking so African-American. That’s just not me.
--Fiona, age 37
Some women just give up—they refuse rhinoplasty or highlighting and end up looking so Jewish. That’s just not me.
-- Rachel, age 43
I know. Like some girls I know just give up. They refuse to give up meals and embrace their anorexia and like, they end up looking so fat, like my sister, who’s 107 pounds now.
--Ana, age 19
Well some women just give up and refuse to have children. They end up looking more like a godmother than a grandmother. That’s just not me.
--Glynda, age 87
Some women just give up—they refuse to curl their hair or streak it and end up looking more like a Native American than a real American. That’s just not me!
--Marilyn, age 60
Some women just live up—they refuse to look hard enough for a man and end up looking like a Lesbian. That’s just not me!
--Nicole—call me Nick, age 24
Some women just give up—they refuse electrolysis of facial hair and end up looking more like Frida Kahlo than Diego Rivera. That’s just not me!
--Lillian, age 72
Some women just give up—they refuse facelifts and botox and end up revealing their emotions. That’s just not me!
--Oriana, age 34
Some editors just give up. They refuse to separate advertising from content and end up looking more like a pimp than a publisher. That’s not for me!
--Diane, age 57
Diane Kendig, a poet, writer, and translator, is author of three chapbooks, most recently Greatest Hits, 1978-2000 (Pudding House). Her poetry and nonfiction have appeared in the journals Colere, Ekphrasis, Minnesota Review, Mid-America, U.S. 1 and Slant, among others, as well as the anthologies Broken Land: Poems of Brooklyn and Those Winter Sundays: Female Academics and their Working-Class Parents. A recipient of two Ohio Arts Council Fellowships in Poetry, a Fulbright lectureship in translation, and a Yaddo Fellowship, she currently lives in Lynn, Massachusetts. Her website is at http://dianekendig.com/.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
HEADLINERS & LEGENDS
by Aaron O. Gillego
O J Simpson gets arrested as Hillary Clinton unveils her universal health care plan. It’s 1994 and my father sits there with his dialysis machine, watching Peter Jennings on World News Tonight. On the dining table, I work on Ms. DiLeo’s world map contest for the 8th grade Social Studies class. There are new nations to color in like Namibia, the Ukraine, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and old ones that I don’t know how to label: Myanmar or Burma, the CIS or the USSR. Nations that had once been there have disappeared as if wiped out by a nuclear bomb or as if their existence didn’t matter. The U.S.A is still red, white and blue….and the Philippines just yellow traces on the corner of a map, next to the legend that’s supposed to make things easily understood: that an international border is a solid line, a provincial border is a dotted line…That’s how I viewed the map in front of me, as my father soaked in the news of the world.
Now in 2007, I watch the news anchored by a woman: OJ Simpson gets arrested as Hillary Clinton unveils her universal health care plan. The news doesn’t get old as I do. They show a provincial map of Iraq where war rages on—and there’s a legend that draws the lines in the desert sand, lines that are blurred by blood.
Aaron O. Gillego, 27, graduated summa cum laude (B.A. in English) from the College of Mount Saint Vincent, where he was a recipient of the Corazon C. Aquino Scholarship. He received a fellowship to finish his M.F.A. in Creative Writing (May 2007) at the University of Miami. He resides in Miami Beach, FL and teaches high school English at Toras Emes Academy, where he has worked for four years.
O J Simpson gets arrested as Hillary Clinton unveils her universal health care plan. It’s 1994 and my father sits there with his dialysis machine, watching Peter Jennings on World News Tonight. On the dining table, I work on Ms. DiLeo’s world map contest for the 8th grade Social Studies class. There are new nations to color in like Namibia, the Ukraine, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and old ones that I don’t know how to label: Myanmar or Burma, the CIS or the USSR. Nations that had once been there have disappeared as if wiped out by a nuclear bomb or as if their existence didn’t matter. The U.S.A is still red, white and blue….and the Philippines just yellow traces on the corner of a map, next to the legend that’s supposed to make things easily understood: that an international border is a solid line, a provincial border is a dotted line…That’s how I viewed the map in front of me, as my father soaked in the news of the world.
Now in 2007, I watch the news anchored by a woman: OJ Simpson gets arrested as Hillary Clinton unveils her universal health care plan. The news doesn’t get old as I do. They show a provincial map of Iraq where war rages on—and there’s a legend that draws the lines in the desert sand, lines that are blurred by blood.
Aaron O. Gillego, 27, graduated summa cum laude (B.A. in English) from the College of Mount Saint Vincent, where he was a recipient of the Corazon C. Aquino Scholarship. He received a fellowship to finish his M.F.A. in Creative Writing (May 2007) at the University of Miami. He resides in Miami Beach, FL and teaches high school English at Toras Emes Academy, where he has worked for four years.
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