2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 1

A white two–story house stood before Duane. He approached the front door and then tapped on it four times with his clenched right fist. A girl he guessed to be his age (sixteen) answered. Her countenance glowed. Her attire, a white tank top sporting the words "I LOVE NY," as well as blue shorts which stopped halfway down her thighs, afforded full view of her contours.

Immediately, a sense of déjà vu rushed over Duane, a familiar foreboding of ensuing abandonment. He uttered, "I'm collecting for the paper."

She enters and I half–turn toward the noise, following her with my eyes. She is wearing her robe, light green fuzz going swish–swish as she moves. So soon she stands next to me, and I keep my eyes on her hands until one is on my forehead, soft and cool. "Fever's down," she says, and her words seem tired. She looks out the window.

She watches the dark and the rain. Her hand stays on my head, and where her fingers are I am getting too warm. I don't want to be warm anymore, and I turn my head to the side a little but her fingers stay where they are. I make my neck straight and turn again, but her hand is heavy, and I am so hot. Under the blankets, my legs are moving so much and I can't make them stop. She is not seeing it. She sees it every day. I want them to stop so I won't be so hot, but they won't. I'm sweating under her hands and when I try to move away she thinks it's by accident. Then she stands up. She doesn't look at me and I want her to look into my face because I'm watching her so close. She takes a step away, looking out into the hall, but I want her to stay here, just to be in the room with me.

Last month Kari Pope (Canoga Park, California) wrote about Erin Lewy (Boston, Massachusetts). This month the tables are turned as Erin writes about her fellow Breath & Shadow editor, Kari, and the many arts and disability–related pursuits Kari follows.

Talking to Kari Pope, prose editor of Breath & Shadow, is like coming home to a best friend. She is bubbly, energetic, enthusiastic, and deeply concerned with the well–being of people around her. She demonstrates this with every word she chooses and every project on which she spends her time.

Angie, February is a dead horse field,
is a coughing gray and yellow
crunching Ferris wheel sun,
a method–life painting that records
my spine hammer war
for song-handsome death.

I know I am not alone.
These crying words sound
like stones tied around my neck,
violent hands in my pockets
stealing loose change and sex.

I am a tie–dyed wheel spinning on it's bearing
As I wear down
I am still holding onto the road
I have a better grip on the road
On the wheels there are bumps
There are flat spots
As I try to work out my bumps
and make myself rounder

The mind can't picture
ppp–rrr–o–bbb–lll–eee–mm
as a problem until too late:
the tongue flips helplessly,
feet stomp, head shakes,
trying to get one damn word out
before the day is done!