Issue 4.2: Grant Clauser

Your Sister’s Children Always Disappear by Cathy Ulrich
“Your sister’s children are always disappearing when she closes her eyes….”

The Moons of Jupiter by Tara Isabel Zambrano
“When Ramirez starts moving inside me, I know I’ll be blind…”

Carnival of Death by Dale M. Brumfield
“Public opinion was slow to protest against the imbruting effect of public executions…”

Flame Test by Rochelle Harris
“For the longest time, I thought it was about the marble or the coolness of the water…”

Finding Roots by Kristan Uhlenbrock
“Settling into a window seat, I tuck the begonia cutting into the edge of my handbag…”

Conveyance by Michael Brokos
“Bas-relief your hand on a lamp pole in rain mine tracing the bus schedule…”

Stealing Clay From The Crayola Factory by Grant Clauser
“Bushkill Creek churned past the old plant where my Aunt …”

Reading Hamlet by Kathryn Hunt
“When the others were asleep she sometimes
in the silence…”

Water Children by Kathryn Hunt
“That awful thunk and suddenly the arrival of
the minus hour…”

Processing by Anna Kelley
“Kate didn’t say whether she was there for the gunshot…”

Cataloochee by Kelly Lenox
“In the woods back of Caldwell House, I rest on a mossy root…”

Stealing Clay From The Crayola Factory

Bushkill Creek churned past
the old plant where
my Aunt said every Wednesday
the foreman filled a bin
with modeling clay
that didn’t measure up.
Kenny and I crept in
after the second shift workers
poured their thermoses
out on the lot and drove home.
We stood on barrels or crates
to reach the big trough
where blocks of clay
dropped from a shoot all day
and melted into boulders
from red to gray.
Heaving handfuls
over the side, one would fill
a sack while the other mined
for bright finds, greens and yellows,
the blues that looked like new
denim or the sky
reflected off the Bushkill dam.
Done, we’d squeeze back
under the fence, leave
some blood on the wire
or a sneaker stuck
back in the clay bin
like a tar-pit bound tiger,
then bike home with a haul
our friends admired,
and together build volcanoes
filled with baking soda and vinegar.
We’d watch eruptions over and over
until the whole little town
was swallowed in our ash.

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