Maybe I Am Looking for You in Moab
Renée Lepreau
Head fogged from fitful night’s sleep dreading
white noise drone of mini-fridge, wheezing
heater, contracted under too few blankets and yes, it’s the same motel. My first time alone
in a rented room, like a grown-up,
like someone who doesn’t need
to be taken care of. I’m turning thirty
this year and that’s one way
to measure time. So I am looking for you
but you’re not here today, among the polygamist
wives, flocks of offspring flying
through banks of sea-green skirts and sneakers.
I see why we mostly came at night, the desert
deserted, moon shadows claiming sandstone
tourists swarm now. Like the other pilgrims, I pay my dues to Delicate Arch, ensconced
in old coats so familiar I almost believe
they are mine. Afraid to document
your absence, I take no pictures. You’ve made it hard to track you down, driving always under
cover of darkness while I slept, each waking a surprise, leaving only a briefcase
stuffed with tattered maps to go on.
Truth is, I’ll never find you, or what you took
of me when you left. What happens in the looking — it’s something else.
The Fly and the Spider Narasu Rebbapragada
Waves come in, waves go out,
Brushing sand in muted twilight.
Everyone gets the sea they want.
The sound of surf, the sound of om,
Yogis’ early morning quiet.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
Sunscreen oozes out from pores,
Spreads into the water, a filmy white.
Snorkelers change the sea they want.
A holiday to rekindle the spark,
She holds him close, he averts his eyes. Love comes in, love goes
out.
Fish ride the waves, get stuck out on
land, Fish die, dry — slowly eaten by
flies.
Scavengers get the food they want.
Workers take breaks in the parking lot.
Staff cleans the resort, hidden
from sight. They clock in, they clock
out.
Girl slips into the water, unseen by the crowd,
She swallows her tears, dives down into the
night. Waves come in, waves go out,
The sea will take whatever it wants.
senescence
Lucy Zhou
our faces are not quite lined yet
leathery with knowing and the feeling
of wind drafting past our sapling
shoulders
soft bellies sticky with taffy, saliva
and later booze. we drink under
bodies and pink lighting throwing up
sand
in between breaths and dance slow
staccatoed time running down our
necks to tell us no more
spend these chlorinated days longing
for a dried up myth, the pain of growing so
hollow husked like the pistachio shells
we drop in between our toes. there will be
more time later, we intone, later there will be
no more time to want. we consider love to be
bottomless
like the curve of a sleeping volcano, and so
we wait for our mothers to turn into
parchment and for our fathers to press the
underbelly
of their fists into petals. our children shall
come to know the imprints of our language
on their lips
and the moon, too, shall make a
sound like a trail beckoning to god.
Forum Magazine 