braided streams

1B R A I D E D S T R E A M S

B R A I D E D S T R E A M S2


We f o u n d e a c h o t h e r through classes

and coffee shops, performances and readings, and sometimes

just serendipity. We call ourselves “Ten Poets” and have been

meeting for four years to support and critique each other’s

work. We are variously an engineer, a grant writer, two lawyers,

a retired librarian, a national parks ranger, a kindergarten

teacher, a fish biologist, and a social worker. We have no

sponsor and no leader. What we have in common are a love for

the incredible sweep and majesty of our chosen home, Alaska,

and a desire to express ourselves through a highly condensed,

figurative form of speech known as poetry. At our once-a-week

meetings during all but the summer months, we share red wine,

cookies, fruit, and our passion for the art of the the written

and spoken word. We hope you enjoy what we have to offer.


C O N T E N T S

Renga Renga are accretive poems in which members of a group take turns contributing

stanzas / Magic Steals the Night 6 / March 7

Miriam Beck Angler 8 / Hunt 9 / Olya Nyet Doma 10 / Sonnenizio

on a First Line from Mary Roth, written in 1621 10 / Until Reveille (Homeless

Encampment) 11

Mike Bur well April Story 12 / An Experiment with Kelp 13 / In My

Village 13 / Last Sunday 14 / Friendship at the National Monument 14 / My

California 14

Gretchen Diemer Dreams of Our Son 15 / Farm Visitor, Romania

16 / Monarch Migration 17 / Pears 18 / The Courage of Sophie Scholl 19

Sherr y Eckrich Diagnosis 20 / Guacamole 20 / How to Write a Poem

21 / Mayday 22 / Neck Bone Stew 22 / Water Ballet 22

Deb Liggett A Terrible Truth 23 / Burial Along the Rio Grande 24 /

Headed South Out of Fairbanks 24 / Saguaro Departure 25 / Storm 25 /

Sundance at Bears Lodge 26

Marie Lundstrom Empty Nest 27 / Green There Is 28 / His Long

Dying 29 / Lynx 30 / Mom’s Words 30 / Not Mongo 31

John McKay Doogle David 32 / Black Ice 34 / La Bohème de la Backyard

34 / Labor Day at Glen Alps 34 / On Martin’s First Dive at Whittier 35 /

Tundra Twilight 36

Paul Winkel Cabin by the River 37 / Desert Skies 37 / Evening Shift

38 / Fall Back 39 / Holiday Scenes 39 / Mercury Rising 40

Tonja Woelber Corner Grocery, Brooklyn 41 / Counting Birds 41 /

No Regrets: 35,000 feet 42 / Un-Speakable 42 / Philly 43 / The Way of a Man

with a Maiden 44 / Keeping You Alive 44

Cover art, layout and design by Paxson Woelber; paxsonwoelber.com

B R A I D E D S T R E A M S


RengaRenga are accretive poems in which members of a group

take turns contributing stanzas

M A G I C S T E A L S T H E N I G H T

Renga by Marie, Gretchen, John, Paul, Tonja, Mimi, Sherry

Outside, a huge moonenchants at spring equinox—I sleep in magic.

The shadow of an openwindow, wind lifts the blanket.

Moth shuttles acrossluminous lunar landscapetoward woolen dawn.

Sun glints above a ridgeline,dirty snow becomes rose-hued.

Mountains’ silhouetteblack against lightening sky,dawn birds sing matins.

Night’s icy trails soften: slush.Cold water splashes a foot.

Entranced by moon’s shine,I lose my steady footing.How could it matter?

6

7B R A I D E D S T R E A M S 7

M A R C HRenga by Marie, Gretchen, John, Paul, Tonja, Mimi, Sherry Sun glazes snowfall into sparkling glass. Northbound, shadows trace blue drifts. Ready for spring’s arrival I glance at it but don’t see. Snow drops from branches, sun-warmed in light-longer days frosted in short nights. Wind-dusted ice, bent field grass, no movement in long shadows Solar messengers hum secret urges into ears of dormant buds, softly waken with a sigh spread their petals, rise in joy. Surprise snowstorm blows deep drifts over struggling starts-- spring shudders back, spent.

Tonja Woelber



Miriam BeckA N G L E R Remembering William Stafford

He slit apart bookswith his pocketknife. Long slices freed pages like filets lifted off a fish-spine.He spared the stitchesthat held pages in signatures,sixteen pages bound together.These meaty pamphletshe stuffed into rubber bands in order,then into his backpack.

Pedaling up Palatine Hill to the college,his rucksack was packed with protein for the needy.Madame Bovary, pages 91-122,key passages marked,to serve to the literature class.A cheap second-hand Rubaiyat boned out for the next lesson.

He practically said grace before reading aloud,but he laughed when I questioned his way with the books themselves.What’s a book? he asked,as he coiled the cord of the overhead projector, flipped on the overhead light, and slipped his rucksack onto his shoulderswith a shrug like setting a hook.

Miriam Beck


H U N T

Lay out the bait and step back with your knife.Wait as shadows cool the swirling air.Prey and hunter circle through this life,tracks entwined like any dancing pair.

Wait as shadows cool the swirling air--scented breezes draw him near.Tracks entwine like any dancing pair.Raise up your blade as his last mirror. The softening shadows free his courage.He moves in rhythm with the earth’s great spin.Your awareness hones the weapon’s edge—breathe in his exhaled breath as he steps in.

With the rhythm of the earth’s great spin,pause briefly in the grace of purpose.As you exhale and plunge the weapon in, two forms reflect on its bright surface. Live briefly in the grace of purpose.Prey and hunter circle through this life,brief reflections on a moving surface--lay bait, stand back, and wait to feel the knife.

LaConner Quilt Museum; Photo: Marie Lundstrom


O L YA N Y E T D O M A

When she got off the plane, she told me things she knewhow to say. I was convinced

she loved soup and walking in nature.She came home, tried on my shoes, learned how to say

hi to American boys. She was fifteen. I simmered and strained,cooking seemed how to say I would try

to fill in for her mom. She shopped carefully but often.I wanted to say how much more can you use?

She stayed the school year. I never learnedhow to say no to her without a tussle,

as though she were my own. By the time she left, I knewhow to say in Russian, to the far-away voice on the telephone,

Olya’s not at home.

S O N N E N I Z I O O N A F I R S T L I N E F R O M M A R Y R O T H , W R I T T E N I N 1 6 2 1

In this strange labyrinth how shall I turn?Though I use caution and corner how carefully,a strange pull overcomes prudence…Turning captures me like a whirl of dance.Shall I resist? How quickly I’m drawn, breath gasping,until that turn is behind.

Turned loose, set down,strange current absent.Here I thread a turn only with effort.Strangeness weights me now.How shall I lift my feet again?

Dragged by current or mired in strange dead eddy—Labyrinth, unspool a line to keep me steady.

Miriam Beck


U N T I L R E V E I L L E ( H O M E L E S S E N C A M P M E N T )

Crossing a bridge at midnight,my steps tap above traffic, pause--dozens bivouac on the sidewalk ahead.

They lie still. I step between.Torsos inflate and empty, rise and fall in the dark.A young beauty’s fiery hair flows loose on pavement.

Dark fingers close around the hilt of a dream.Full biceps twitch. Tattooed lily.Old man’s cheeks sag onto his bent arm, a pillow.

Breeze soughs above the river.Trucks rumble by.Ghosts pass, jangling keys.

Breathing bodies rest head by toe,wrapped in what quiet they can find,waiting for a call to rise.

Janet Levin


Mike Bur wellA P R I L S T O R Y

He knocked on the condodoor, gray suit, a thin orange tie

with a funny geometric pattern, shoes dirty,shirt wrinkled, a bit embarrassed;

the dog ready to take his leg.Jehovah’s Witness selling

subscriptions to the Watchtower?But there was something else

besides doctrine in his eye. It was glee,as he told me I had the number

and that he was here to confirmmy winnings: a cool two and half

million. I reined the dog and invited himin for coffee and boiled eggs, thinking

today I had reason to be late for work,could take that government job

and shove it because todaywas the 1st of April

and I, I wasthe luckiest of men.

Janet Levin



A N E X P E R I M E N T W I T H K E L P –for Eva

Brown-yellow ribbon, draped on gray, rounded stones,boils of air trapped in its skin,glistening salt-wet as the surf bumps and rolls it,folds and flips it toward my feet.This wrinkled khaki tube opens on one end,closes on the other to a pointed reddish-hued tail.Placed on a drift log, it jumps like paperas the wind dries it, leaching color and sand.

A fisherman blasts my meditation:“Sir,” (he says, sir), “What are you doing?”“I’m doing a writing exercise.”“About what?”“About this,” I say, shovingthe naked brown strip to his face.He’s confused for a moment, then grows serious,“Sir,” he says again, “Whatever you do,Don’t put that in your sandwich.”

I N M Y V I L L A G E

In my village we move faster than you,speeding under the sun where you watchyour corn. In my village no one is outin the rain watching for birds that mightbring signs. No one waters a horse. No onespends half a day at the square becausethere isn’t one. No one is there to smile.No one speaks softly into the heat of the day.In my village there are huge clocks underthe ground murmuring songs about carbon,food not grown in earth. We rally for oddcolors and tones that sometimes push ourblood. If pines dance, there is no oneto hear them. We cannot climb the slopesto the trunks and branches, sit down, listen.



L A S T S U N D AY

There it is: our small wreckage on the table,but some pieces, when you turn them to the light,

grow to small towns full with colorful housesand inside each of them, much light, and fires kindled

in each hearth. In one, a man and woman sail,awash in the new sea of their mutual breath.

On this trail, gratitude for spruce, firedby late light, the centering and uncentering of touch.

F R I E N D S H I P AT T H E N AT I O N A L M O N U M E N T

We work south of Tucson’s cauldronin the Chiricahua Mountains, summer of 1973.

A road crew shoveling asphalt under rhyolitemonoliths rising to juniper rimrock and molten blue sky.

Each morning two miles to drive and three to hike;then a soothing coast on beater bikes down the park

road to our lime green Park Service dump truckfull of smoldering asphalt for holes blasted

open on the road. At night we stashour bikes behind big junipers, hike east

to a summer growing red cardinal flowers, yellowcolumbine, bee balm bending to the speech

of Whitetail Creek. We stop under giant white-skinnedsycamores that shield Rick’s cabin. Always beer

and conversation; always there in the front roomon a bare table D.H. Lawrence’s collected poems:

a spinning dynamo fueling us in these youngmetal nights, and long after, under lesser stars.

M Y C A L I F O R N I A

I go to a canyon on the coast,furred with chaparral, openingits mouth to beachand sea beyond.A down-canyon gaze tumblesthe heart through hazy airto the rolling flare of wave sound.Everywhere, mysterious orange and yellowexperiments of flowers push upfrom under thick, barbed stems.

The small house of thin cut cedarlooks seaward over dry brush.In my daily chant of lines,words tick above rocks,soar over brush and wash,ride the canyon’s pungent breath.

If I read all day, at nightI bask in the wineof other poets. We do nothingbut sing in the rich dark,keeping our tumble toward deathclothed in bright cloth.

Each morning, the clothbillows like an opulent flagover the pearl of the sea.


Marie Lundstrom

Gretchen DiemerD R E A M S O F O U R S O N for Jeff

Our son runs his teamat night through Rainy Pass, I hear the dogs’ soft breathin my dreams, his father with-out sleep, staring at the moon. ***Without sleep, I listento his restless dreams, rock himon the rutted trail,together, ride the runnersthirty miles each starless night. ***Snow buries the trail,dried willow breaks under ourheavy boots, he callsto us, impatiently, watchthe markers, do not lose your way. ***He calls to the dogs,loose under the winter moon,they bark at any-thing, bird chirp, his departingshadow, slowly breaking trail.

Sherry Eckrich


FA R M V I S I T O R , R O M A N I A

[I ask] the Gypsy from Romania

”What do Gypsies believe?”

The Gypsy looks away and doesn’t answer.

The rain keeps falling

- Simon Ortiz

I believe in rain, in the man soakedto the skin, staring at his crops, in the words he mutters: it’s raining all over Romaniathe wheat and fruit will rot, sooner orlater we will all go hungry.

the gypsy looks away...

...and on the road clutteredwith broken tools and old clothes,I call out to the hungry dogs dodging the donkey carts: gobble the meat scraps I toss to youand go on, your bellies still empty. Look this man in the eye. Tell him what you already know. The fruit molds on his trees.There is no good in the world.

The gypsy does not answer. He has seen this before. A handful of coins. A string of sausages. A woman crying in the wind.

For the man pouring rain from his shoes, I have no answers, only my feet covered in mud, a train ticket to Bucharest.

I have no explanation for the shatteredglass in the road, the bleeding from his handsthe children at the window of the car.

I only know he holds a dog like his injured brother, mutters in Romanian, apa gust de rahatas if I did not know: the water tastes like sewage

and whether the dog lives or dies the rain continues

the gypsy man knows the story:

Forty Days. Forty Nights. Rain. the flood will come

Sherry Eckrich


M O N A R C H M I G R AT I O N

On the day of your death one thousandand eighteen migrating butterflies clustered outside a window facing south...

I am on a beach in Mexicothere are no butterflies, only waves and black rock a few fisherman throwing out their lines

...they roosted for the night outlined by the frame of a windownot mine or yours

crossed the border flying to Ocampo or Angangueoeast of Ciudad Hidalgo in the state of Michoacán.

I am on a beach in Mexico, the shore too rocky and rough for swimmers. Brown pelicans fly over.A few fishermenpull in their lines, the sun shifts and drops into the sea.

Someone with a flashlight hunts for crabs between the rocksa coati drinks the chlorinated water from the pool, stares when I rise to the surface.

In a place of the fishermen, violenceis not confined to the cities.Swimmers should use extreme caution.

On the day of your deathI reel in my line, dive into the wavesdream there are no butterflies.

Photo: Tonja Woelber



P E A R S

Pears have nothing to do with griefthe disappearance of sea ice, the collapse of a colony of bees

pears have nothing to do with your handsbleached by the noonday sun, peeling the bark

from the tree rooted in the red clay soil still, I am peeling a pear, from the tree

dropping the golden skins at my feetexposing the flesh to a swarm of bees clustered

now stinging my hands. I plunge my hands

into the dirt, into the spilled honey in the fieldwhere we met, you and I, where we dropped

like two stones in the grass, pledged to growold, shrivel like the dying pears hollowed out

by drunken bees in autumn.

Sherry Eckrich


T H E C O U R A G E O F S O P H I E S C H O L L *

If I were you, Sophie, I would speak out, speak up, shout curses at the pavement, pile leaflets on every doorstep, I would take a chainsaw to the trees blocking the road, erase my image from the janitor’s eyes

this, I would do

but I am not you, telling the judge: what we wrote and said is believed by many, they just don’t dare express themselves.

I am not you, convicted and sentenced to the guillotine, sayinggood-bye to mother, my father, without tears. I am not even

able to count the bodies, those lost for any reason, I am simplyat home, in the kitchen, with water running and my eyes

filled with tears---from the onions frying on the stove from dust gathered on the bookshelves and under the stairs.

We are, as we all know, born of dust and to dust return

disintegrated bodies passing

through, like the white roses arranged in a vase by the fragile light of the fire, wine poured, a glass for each of us. Drink up. To your health. To mine. Drink up, drink up.

*Sophie and Hans Scholl were founding members of the Nazi resistance movement, “The White Rose.” The brother and sister

were arrested on February 18, after a janitor reported seeing them distributing leaflets at the University of Munich. They were

executed four days later, on February 22, 1943.


Sherry EckrichD I A G N O S I S

She wasn’t worried they’d say “malignancy.”The local anestheticsmoothed the procedureto a white cloudslightly indentedlike a pillow from which a headjust departed.So the biopsy reporta surprise slapgave her pausea fish twisting out of waterthe tall elm toppled by windor a thoughtless remarklater regretted.

G U A C A M O L E

I’d rather make guacamolethan write a poem:Feel the stiff resistanceof the skin as I scoop,then smush the yielding greenpulp against the side of the bowl.I’d rather do that than wear graphiteoff the end of a six-sided stick.I’d rather mince garlic, jalapeño, red onionthan words.Easier to slick seeds from a cut Roma tomatowith the tip of my index fingerthan to delete redundancies, tighten lines.Sprinkle on lime juice to ward offmetaphoric darkening of the flesh.Involve the senses—taste, smell, sight—with chipotle chili powder, cumin,smoky paprika. How much more fluidlythan words its buttery smoothnesscrosses my tongue.I’d rather do any of thatthan push pencil across paper,then fret for days about the outcome.Surely there’s a place on the platterfor something to be eatenand forgotten.

Miriam Beck


H O W T O W R I T E A P O E M

As you finish off the chocolate cake that sat, lonely, on the flat pressed-glass cake plate, remember that food fuels creativity, and extra calories fuel unsurpassed creativity. Run your middle finger through leftover blobs of chocolate icing. Insert finger in mouth. Repeat.Remind yourself that the good ideas have all been expressed, and more eloquently than you could do. Don’t notice how snow drapes like marshmallow creme on the deck rail or the silent music of new snow falling.Do notice, suddenly, the lacy cobwebs on the lampshade in the living room, rising and falling from the heat of the light bulb, like birds taking off and settling again. Grab a dust rag, see dust on the bookshelf, crumbs on the carpet.Begin a draft of a poem twenty minutes before you must leave the house. Recall that your teeth need brushing, the dog should go out.Feel chilly. Decide to change clothes, add a turtleneck, re-sew a loose button, worry about which coat you’ll need to stay warm as the temperature slips and wind lifts.Catch sight of a smudge on your glasses. Find the soft cloth you need so the lenses don’t get more scratched. Keep your vision clear. Without clear vision, writing a poem is hard.


M AY D AY

Like a bent metal sign with bullet holes distorting the warning, my memory has gaps the sun could shine through but today cold rain blows through. Not only names—easy enough to forget—but the faces connected with them. Words that once slid from my mouth like a child on cardboard down an icy hillside now are mired in muck somewhere behind me, refusing to pop back up. It’s my biggest fear: the dread of lingering, mindless, a jumble of disconnected thoughts briaring through my garden. A tumble of illogical requests. The trailing off “I want…” my mother emitted over and over, like a signal from a sinking ship, the last passenger hoping desperately someone will hear her as she makes her final plea to be located.

N E C K B O N E S T E W

A meal Bennie craved that I’d never heard of:neck bones boiled in water till meat falls from vertebrae.That’s it. No tricks of seasoning, no browning,just plain pork flavor, cartilage gone soft.

If only our relationship had been that simple.Or maybe it was. Anger waxed, I waned,and finally slipped away through the cracks,holding our son, still young and intact.

Now Bennie lies in hospice—colon, liver, lungs riddled,cartilage softening, unable to raise his voice—but still rising to anger.He asked our son for neck bone stew,something to ballast his hundred-pound frame.

My anger, when did I abandon it?I consider flying there to cook neck bones for himbut I know redemptionis not mine to give.

WAT E R B A L L E T

Asleep in a narrow bedlovers tangledin sweet sheetsturn in unison,rolling waves’ever-changing currents.

Knees pressedinto bent knees,belly to back,then effortlessroll and curl.Bodies bracket dreamsin seamless fitlike fronds swayingundulatingunderwaterperpetual gracein the blue-greendepths of shared sleep.



Deb LiggettA T E R R I B L E T R U T H

I have to believethere is no differencebetween a crocus pushingaside the warm soil of springand the lost echo of a silent heart,the burnished bud of the wild rosein summer twilightand the absent breath.

How else can God explainthe death of a child or suicide,except to saythat it is all the same to Him –the breath and the quiet,the beat and the void.

B R A I D E D S T R E A M S


B U R I A L A L O N G T H E R I O G R A N D E

Tucked against a low gray bluff,the dead of a dying town,gathered in family groups,rest in the long-hanging desert sun.Then, today,the fresh dirt of a new grave,shovel marks of recent death.

Piles of rock and dirtcover the stillborn, drowned and aged.No coffins, but sometimesa crude concrete tomb keeps the coyotes from digging up the dead.

Heat lightning in the distance,smell of rain,a bass beat of thunder,the sky darkens and empties.

A tentative croak and thenhundreds of spade-foot toadsin full cry,an insistent gospel.

The storm rolls southtoads quiet and the sky brightens,an early coyote sings a psalmcut short.

Who will be leftto bury the lastbetween silence and refrain?

H E A D E D S O U T H O U T O F FA I R B A N K S

In doubles, triplescranes dangle, dropfrom the lightening skyinto short-legged barley.Nimble, light on their toes,thievery in broad daylight.Tonight, they’ll slip out of townthinkingto try Texas next.

Sherry Eckrich



S A G U A R O D E PA R T U R E

They march away in twilight,arms lifted skyward,until they step off a ridge,rise like awkward angels.

I can hearthe rattle of their ribs,the skitter of lizards,the rake of wind.

I, too, could shake offstilted daytime poses,lift my arms, walk the rocky slope,ascend.

S T O R M

A kick-asscrash-and-boom rainslams the glass,

pelts down the pane,sheets from the sill,splays off the hard pan,

till, worn out,the soft mist, the slow drip,off the pine,

the quiet.



S U N D A N C E AT B E A R S L O D G E

A pine pole newly cut limbed buried uprightand placed at the base the bleached skull of a bull bisonPrairie grass bent in a clockwise circlebarefoot bare-chested mendance

The dancers circle the pole in turnencircled by a willow arbor shading cross-legged onlookers seated in lawn chairsthe feet of old menstill dancing

A spotless blue skyThe drumming heartbeat of the Lakota and the earthmelded not separatethe fastingand dancing of men

Nailed atop the center poledeer thongs hang down ending in sharp-tipped stickspiercing the chests of the celebrantstethering them to the pole

The urgency of the song a crashing culminating beatand in their final effort the dancers run backwards and break their thongsHi ya

Muscles ripped torn blood running downThey will carry scarsand by their wounds be known as men who dancedandprayeddancedandprayeddancedandprayedand for this one yearkeep the Earth turning

Janet Levin


Marie LundstromE M P T Y N E S T

Yeah, I finally got rid of them all—damn kids filled up this shoeso it wasn’t livable no more.Now it’s quiet-like, and I can sleep nights.Melanie, Jenny, Ginger, and Katewent off with boyfriends.Maybe they’ll get married. Maybe not.But I got a nice sewing spotout of their room in the toe.Hank, Walter, Kenny, and Petewent job hunting and didn’t come back—working somewhere, I reckon.I put grow-lights on their bunksin the heel. Works great fortomatoes and peppers.They turn out grand.Fred and Marian, now,the youngest ones,they was the smartest.Set themselves up in businessbuying wool from Bo-Peep’s outfit,turn it into yarn and make sweaters.Built a little store with rooms over.Works good for them.And I got the shoe to myself.Can’t say I miss all them noisy kidsbut I gotta lot of space here.I thought about Father William, but he’s too damn old.They call me old, but I’m justreachin’ my prime—don’t haveto worry ‘bout having no more kids.I been thinkin’ about that Tom, the piper’s son. He’s growed upenough, he might be interestingto get to know.

Amy Woelber


G R E E N T H E R E I S

Green there is under floods of sun, dryingwet March mud intobumpy April steps, upthe hill ridge steeply. My age ten feet clamber overa bare tree root poking uprudely in the cow path.I grasp Chief by hisneck ruff for help upa slick spot on the high slope.

Green there is, ina curtained glade belowthe path, holdinglilies in bold yellowmasking one secret purple treasure, a shooting star,early and alone.Jackie woofs outsidethe hidden corner,urging me on, at thirteen,to check out more of April.

Green there is, on topthe ridge. Wind furrowsthe old brown grasses, dry.Soft new green lurks deep, barely out of earth.Greta sniffs around my sitting rock for coyotemessages and perfumed evidence of cattle lazing at theirspring under downslope trees.At twenty-nine, I followApril wind along the openridge toward the headland.

Green there isin terraced gardensof rock-strewn headland. Hawks overheadscream at Coco, too close.I wave, their circles narrowto frighten us. I cherishmy April breath, at forty.

Green there is—in each new April,the cow path bumpy,so I, with Ring,trudge alongside deep hoof prints, hard.Bold lilies with one secret purple treasuredress up the tiny glade.Even at sixty-six, Isee with wonder and young eyes, blind to changein remembered earth.The ridge-top wind makes tears and chills my shoulders,the headland hawks screamat our every April invasionof their wild gardens.

Green there is—in my bones’ April memory.


H I S L O N G D Y I N G

It was raining in Aprilthe day Colin beganhis long dying.

“Leukemia,” they said, in white.We shook our heads,gave blood and benefit dances,and remembered Frank Bantlowho drowned last fallin his senior year.

Tillie Freedman’s dogchased Bill Garvey’s livestocktoo often, and had to be shot.Einar Coleman bought the Harris farmdown the road, and the summer was too wet for good hay.We played small-town softballand went swimming in the river.

“He’s better,” they said.“We’re trying a new drug.”We nodded, gave blood and money,and remembered Pete Dotson,found dead two years agounder his tractor.

Colin visited school one daywith his older brother Al.We took his picture for the yearbookeven without hair.His best friend Samstayed home that day.

“He’s very weak but doing well,” they said.We cheered up, held a raffleafter a skating party on Paris Lake,and remembered Peggy Tillson,nine years old, thrown fromher horse to a rock.Colin couldn’t come.

“He’s holding on,” they said.We visited the hospital,carrying new flowers,and remembered Ellen Martinez,who lost her brakes last monthand drove into the river.

“It’s only a matter of time,“ they said.We made potato salad and hot dogsfor September picnicking at the river.Jack McLaren read usthe notice in the newspaper—in the picture, Colin had his hair.We played softball, and it didn’t rain.

Sherry Eckrich


L Y N X

He owns the forest where he slinkswith tufted ears and massive paws,a shadowed hunter, ghost-furred lynx.

A noiseless tracker, he’s a sphinx,his aim the snowshoe hare to gnaw,he knows the forest where he slinks.

Few people see his watchful blinkswhile stalking prey through freeze and thaw,a shadowed killer, silent lynx.

From human kind, he swiftly shrinks— he follows only Nature’s laws,his home is forest, where he slinks.

No petted cat with human linksor food from cans—he eats his raw,a ghostly stalker, shadowed lynx.

He’s ruled by a hunter’s strong instinctsto use his wiles and speed and clawsHe owns the forest where he slinksA shadowed hunter, ghost-furred lynx.

M O M ’ S W O R D S

“What will the community think?”My mother’s voice echoes in mind.How often I’d hear her and shrinkfrom her warnings to keep me in line.

My mother’s voice sounded in mindlike an Oz witch’s terrible hex.Her cautions to keep me in linemade me fearful of drinking and sex.

From that witcheried terrible hex,neighbor eyes watched from walls and in cars.I was cautious of drinking and sex,staying far from cute boys and dark bars.

Neighbor eyes in the walls and in carsleft me curious but cautious as cats.I got close to hot guys and dim barsbut still could hear Mom’s caveat.

Being cautious and curious as catsI sampled small sins on the sly.Despite my mom’s sharp caveat,my young self was going awry.

My small-scale sins tried on the slyemboldened my efforts toward more.As my young years went faster awry,her words I worked hard to ignore.

Now I’m older, have tried lots of “more,”and it’s my line I keep to instead.Her words are now family lore,worth a smile when they rise in my head.

Though the warning falls faint in my head,when I enjoy having sex or take drink,still her voice echoes just as she said,“What will the community think?”


M O M ’ S W O R D S

“What will the community think?”My mother’s voice echoes in mind.How often I’d hear her and shrinkfrom her warnings to keep me in line.

My mother’s voice sounded in mindlike an Oz witch’s terrible hex.Her cautions to keep me in linemade me fearful of drinking and sex.

From that witcheried terrible hex,neighbor eyes watched from walls and in cars.I was cautious of drinking and sex,staying far from cute boys and dark bars.

Neighbor eyes in the walls and in carsleft me curious but cautious as cats.I got close to hot guys and dim barsbut still could hear Mom’s caveat.

Being cautious and curious as catsI sampled small sins on the sly.Despite my mom’s sharp caveat,my young self was going awry.

My small-scale sins tried on the slyemboldened my efforts toward more.As my young years went faster awry,her words I worked hard to ignore.

Now I’m older, have tried lots of “more,”and it’s my line I keep to instead.Her words are now family lore,worth a smile when they rise in my head.

Though the warning falls faint in my head,when I enjoy having sex or take drink,still her voice echoes just as she said,“What will the community think?”

N O T M O N G O There are no ordinary cats. - Colette

The Friends of Pets people say,“Crossing the Rainbow Bridge”to describe the death of a pet.

Not Mongo.

He’ll pound over ice bridges on his clawless paws,hissing at owls and foxes,waving his elegant golden tabby taildefiantly in family faces.

He’ll snarl at other cats—no company for Mongo on this trip.He’ll walk by himselfand spit at vets.

He did like a lap—for a while—when he rumbled his deep-throat purruntil he’d had enough petting and growled his jump away.When the food came on time and in plenty,he trilled like a diva.

Even when he barfed on a new quilt,shed gold hair on black pants,and peed on the bathroom floor,we loved him.

No rainbow bridge for Mongo.

He’ll leap glacial crevasses,stand off beasts and raptorswith tigerish warning growls.He won’t go gentle into that good night.

Not Mongo.

He’ll stay snarky all the way to the end.

Cee Lewars


John McKayD O O G L E D AV I D The sandy cliffs of my first kisswhere the apple orchards meet Lake Michiganwere left by unseen glaciers about the time,according to some creationists, the earthand all life were begat and began, leftby Ice Age vandals who carved their marksin the deep woods for all to see: L.O. loves L.E.,L.M + L.S. + L.H. — I heart Great Lakes.People whine about leaving nature as we find it, but without these, Carl Sandberg would have beenone poem short of a load, the Edmund Fitzgeraldwould never have found its way home, I would not have found the Petoskey stone I gave your mother, or played football,barefoot in the hot sand, pure sand right the way down,pure as youwill always be.

I’m told since I went north to the future, a fence now cleaves the dune grass and our beachthat Bob and Jim and Jay and I marked off with towelsand suntan lotion goal posts, theirs and ours, and sportsa sign dividing ours from the Palisades Nuclear plant, but I don’t know. Some things left behind stay wholein your mind.

The cliffs of my advancing years are seamed with coal.They overlook glaciers still retreating, with good cause I’m sure,and Kachemak Bay, teeming with life, where we came once, and your brothers and I still play.

Tonja Woelber


I was thinking about our trip today, as I look past the spittoward Aurora Lagoon and the head of the bay.That long drive to Homer, the intolerable preparations.Your mother packed the cooler, while I stitched togetherher mother’s tatted lace napkin and my grandpa’s white hanky,with the little white on white M, long since rinsed of salty sweatfrom Saginaw’s foundry and sermons at St. Pete’s.

Little brother, middle brotheryou were, and then you weren’t.We watched your shape, your movement,and then we watched your shape —

And when you would not come of your own accord,you were carved out by fingers of iceand as if your weight were not enough, I plucked from our flower bed a garnet-studded chunk from the Stikine’s banks that caught my eye long before your mother did – she had a name, too, Sue –and added it to your shroud, with the grainy rounded trapezoid that was your only baby picture,and carried you to the car.

It was not a day like today, brilliant and hopeful.It was a snotty September day, as Howard nosed the K-Bay dory out of the harbor, into the chop.The clouds became the waves that battered the bow with eachswell that stood between us and halfway to Bear Cove.and when it was right, but it never was, we let go,cut the motor, cut the cord, as you went overboardpast jellyfish and dollies, puzzling Irish Lords and teasing ottersuntil you landed among the halibut and dungiesand fixed the center of our universe.


B L A C K I C E

On the edge of the world, where night steals up on day and killer crystals slink out of boreal hillsto coat the highways, the Lord, My Shepherdleadeth me on righteous paths, he leadeth me on the Chena Pump which becomes Geist Road, turns into Johansen Expressway turns into a box vanloaded with hammers and boards, bolts and sawblades, rods and staffs that merges with my truck, becomes one, then shudders away, spent. He anointeth my 22-year-old head with the windshield, I runneth over, I am not comforted. Thou hast prepared a table in the presence of mine enemies, I am the main course. Thou has turned me into a hog, squealing as I slide down an icy chute to the abattoir, crying out Your Name, Oh Shit, Oh Shit, Oh Shit, Oh Shit,and I know You will hear my twisted voice and forgive this trespass. I won’t lie, I fear evil, I fear my cup running over, I want to lie in green pastures, not this steely chrysalis. And not yet.

L A B O H É M E D E L A B A C K YA R D

These gypsies swagger in like they’d own the place if they cared to,and stagger out, having stolen their fill,and still, I begrudge them nothing. I envy them, in fact, their frenziedcome-and-go when least expected, their carefree jabbering in Italian or French or whatever language their fermented thoughts take flight in,as the imperial raven soars over,silently reproaching their bohemianlifestyle, and their freewheeling groupartistry transforms the ruddy mountain ashand crabapple that summer painted en plein air to minimalist charcoalskeletons sketched against the grey winter sky.

L A B O R D AY AT G L E N A L P S

A tinge of bitterness in the air, Middlefork, with my chimera. The marmot king surveys his realm,lousewort, larkspur, saxifrage,red bodied spider on camouflaged legs,parky squirrels dodge eagle shadowsacross rusty slopes of blueberries,through green brocaded hills the clashof racks, four bulls in rut, resounds.Funny how easy footing is lost,how treacherous familiar ground,up the couloir, through the scree,one last hike to JoLu peak.A trace of bitterness bites the air.

Sherry Eckrich



O N M A R T I N ’ S F I R S T D I V E AT W H I T T I E R

I have committed him to the deep, my beloved first-born.

And he will go, glad for the adventure,perhaps without a thought of me,but most certainly before me,without me.

The dive shop touts new worlds to explore,and I rejoice in his opportunitylike the fathers of leastborn potato farmerswho sailed the surface of the same aqueous world seeking fortune far from the auld sod.

Soon, he will leave my atmosphere.The very make-up of his blood, my blood, will changeand the lump of coal mined from this vein may be made by new pressuresa diamond shimmering from the depths,

or coal dust in solution,as this father’s umbilical cordstretches, perhaps to the breakingwhile my beautiful boy descends to the element from which he came and which may take him back.



T U N D R A T W I L I G H T

A Safeway sack beats its plastic wings above the sewage lagoon—sandhill crane lording it over swirling toilet paper swallows. Up the hill, wispy remains of nine dollar heating oil rise from chimneys silhouetted in sinking midday sun. Shadows variegatedarkening tundra, and the hum of a snowmobile pierces tranquil infinity where fox and weasel roam through memory of mammoths, moose browse the domain of sabre-tooth cats. Brittle air bumps against yellow glow, South Park blares from the front room, andaround the table, spread with Pilot Bread and agutáq, grandmother tells stories of her grandmother.

Sherry Eckrich


Paul WinkelC A B I N B Y T H E R I V E R

They say an old prospector lived there, went to town every few months, dead for years now.

Built many years before the highway came through,it sits empty, door long gone.Glassless windows stare over restless water,home to birds, squirrels, weekend parties.

Seasons change,the cabin teeters,one corner hangs over churning water, soon to be lostto remorseless currents. I feel the waters of time tug against me, pull away old friends, disperse family, weaken hands, dim sight, slow my steps.

Which of uswill be first to fall?

D E S E R T S K I E S

Stop on a riseby the base of a mesa,it’s midnight.

An ocean of stars laps at the edge of infinity,shadowed sands disappear over the horizon.

Stretched to the edge of the universe,I hide under a grain of sand.Feel the bedrock of the mountainpull on my tendons.My blood courses underground.

I am the first to leave footprints,last to sink back into soil.

Two lane blacktoppulls me to tomorrow.Where will it lead?

Janet Levin


E V E N I N G S H I F T

It’s the hottest part of the day.3 o’clock whistle shrieks,C above middle C.

Heavy flywheel spinson the hole punch,each time the cog passes the ratchet,deep ting of low BH.

With the jarring grind of a low CG ,plate shears gnaw through three-eighths inch steel.

Solid thud of ball peen hammer on center punch,line marks up to the shadow on the press.Dull whine in low EH as greased gears engage,drive the shaped head into steel flatwork,like a baker working his dough,twist it into a pretzel.

Sweat drips from noses,runs down necks,stains shirts dark blue.Discordant clang in low D,overhead crane rumbles above.Quarter inch sheet steelstacked in a jumbled pile.

Day becomes dusk.Stars appear above the glareof the work lights.

Staccato hiss in high A,blue white showers of sparks.Welders peer through featureless helmets,sound of electric rattlesnakes.

A last shriekcloses the day.Breeze from the riverbrings coolness and mosquitoes.

Janet Levin


FA L L B A C K

Second hand halts its staccato movement,gears disengage,heavy wheels slow their spin, stop.

Creak and ping of a cooling universe.

Motion suspended, the world waits.Ancient figures stir from dreamless sleep,scales fall, eyes open, peer into silent darkness.“Is this our time?”Wolves howl in the distance.

Shadows cover the moon,breath hangs in the air,exhale frozen.

A clang, jerk,second hand quivers,jumps forward.

Timbers groan,belts shudder,a deep rumble,movement begins,time resumes.

Those half awakesettle back into slumber.A dog twitches, shakes,lays head on paws.One more reprieve.

H O L I D AY S C E N E S Shopping center packed,cars roam the lot,search for an empty space. Boots scuff a dusty road,circle ruined buildings,rifles held at ready. Skaters wrapped in scarvesglide under a Christmas spruce,syncopated lights flash,red ribbons flutter. Girl looks up with dimming eyes,life pulses onto a dirty street,trickles between cobblestones,collects in a crimson pool. Glowing ball drops from the sky,revelers cheer and hug,welcome a new year. Drone rocket crashes a celebration,three generations disappear,who is left to mourn? Muzak carols in the background.Sounds of laughter in the food court,between bites of taco.Joy To the World! A martyr explodes in ecstasy,worshipers expire, their last wordsa prayer for peace.


M E R C U R Y R I S I N G A small thing to remember a teacher for. My high school physics instructor. Once a semester, out came the pint bottle of mercury. A generous dollop fell on each lab table. Drop cut into pieces, pushed together again. Coalescing into one, skittering over the counter. Roll on the scarred wood like we travel the halls. Self-contained, isolated, buffeted in our journeys, disconnected from surroundings. This period ends, our lives move on. Become either copper cents rubbed into silver coinsor slammed with a textbook, spray in a hundred directions, disappear without a trace.


Tonja WoelberC O R N E R G R O C E R Y, B R O O K L Y N

Black lattice coverswindows, doors; padlocksbig as fists. Insidecrushed tomatoesswim in bright red cans, bags of ricecushion a man humming a samba.A brown girl guards the register,her breasts rest on the counter,languid eyes dreaming. What liesbeneath their surface? The manbeside her thinks he knows:ball cap sideways, he sizes upeach customer, stares downtheir worn faces, fingersthe knife in his pocket.

C O U N T I N G B I R D S

Birds fly overhead.They perch on wires.I cannot hear them speakbut I know they see me.

I had a bird once.Or at least I put one in a cage.He sang for me like his heart was breakingwhile he peered at me with one eye.

Someday I will become a birdhave feathersand fly to the sun.We shall all cry together,able to speak a common tongue.They watch me from their wires,flying arrows of the soul.

Like me, they count the days.

Tonja Woelber


N O R E G R E T S : 3 5 , 0 0 0 F E E T

Lifted seabeds under blistering sunshelter nothing. A lone lizard lieswith half-closed eyeson a sandstone pyre,gives up his last moist breath.

Once this dry arroyofilled with flood,brought cranes, grasses,red riot of desert bloom;cacti offered their soft pearsto a crescent moon,mule deer nuzzled mossbeside translucent pools.

I buy you a painted cactus floweron an airport mug. You touch my arm, turn away,shrink to nothing on white tile.Dry lightningwhitens the western sky.

At the end, Nevada from the air:a crumpled brown paper towel.

Tonja Woelber

U N - S P E A K A B L E

My friend Kathleen and I were thick as thievesWe braided daisies in each other’s hairHer father died when we were only tenI never had a friend so true and fair.

We braided daisies in each other’s hairAnd shared the tears and secrets of our youthI never had a friend so true and fairBut I could never tell her one sad truth.

We shared the tears and secrets of our youthDisney dreams and nightmares that distressBut I could never tell her one sad truth:Her dad, a frozen afternoon, my polka-dotted dress.

Disney dreams and nightmares that distressStill wake me sweating in the dead of night,One with a polka-dotted dress and Kathleen’s dad, But nothing now can make it right.


P H I L L Y

Concrete. Fences.Stubborn vines that crawl up chain link, weeds that rocket out of pavement cracks.The scrabble, kick and push of playground games; screech and squealof truck tires; smell of hot, soft pretzels, licking French’s mustard off my fingers.And oh those cheesesteaks.Make mine with sauce and onionson an Amoroso’s roll, soft as the fleshof an angel. I loved your streets,your buses, even when we hung from strapsand old men felt our schoolgirl legs.Home of sainted Betsy Ross, brick twins,row homes with fountains in the living rooms. Your garish billboards tempted us to smoke, drink Schlitz, go all the wayto Atlantic City, past the refineries, the stadium,the marshes of southjersey where shorebirdswatched us warily as we zoomed byon the expressway, intent on mischief and headed God-knows-where.

Janet Levin


T H E WAY O F A M A N W I T H A M A I D E N Proverbs 30: 18-19

He watches her breathe, her skinglistens along the collarbone, the hollowpulses beneath her throat.She thinks of beeshovering, hovering,tries not to thinkof their soft bodies, what they do.She hands him something: water, a towel,a cigarette–does it matter? Their fingersbrush, linger too long, the air thickens, she drops her eyes.He speaks softly, moves quietly, lets timeerode her resistance; she startles,he locks his eyes on hers, slipsthe halter over her shivering, silken neck.

Tonja Woelber


K E E P I N G Y O U A L I V E

I listen for your voice in the windas my boots press the spongy tundra.I listen to the big winds that blowthe seas around the earth.I listen to the little wind that is my breath.

The wind is everywherelike my memories of you.The wind comes out of nowhereand lifts me, or pushes me down.I cannot see the wind but I hear iton my walks, in my dreams.

You name is spoken by ravensand carried by rough currents.It is sung by small birds that arrive in springand sounds like glass bells, ringing.Your voice resounds in cloudsand pummels my cabin window.There is no place it cannot find me.

I want to hear it again and again,but I cannot force the wind–cannot, by calling it, make it come.I can only wait, silent and hoping,for the wind to tell me you are still here.


Cover art, layout and design by Paxson Woelberpaxsonwoelber.com

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