Issue 4.2: Kelly Lenox

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…”

Cataloochee

In the woods back of Caldwell House, I rest
on a mossy root, after moving a snail
big as a half dollar. When the government
outlined this park, it let Hiram Caldwell and others
stay for a time in this valley rich with elk and apples.
The snail hasn’t moved from where I set it.

Around the school and church, the past
is so heavy it’s hard to stand upright.
A home place gawked at by people tucking
little dogs under their arms as they climb
the stairs, who were warned there was no
phone service and came anyway.

A boy venturing up my trail
points toward me and asks
his grandpa, Who’s that? A ghost,
I want to hiss, don’t ever forget me.
Yesterday’s rain seeps into my clothes.
I will bring the stains of this place home.

It is my grandfather’s birthday.
He would have thrived in Cataloochee,
could have hewn the yellow poplar
of the Caldwell beadboard, hauled doors
and windows over the mountain like he hauled
them to his patch of red Florida clay.

It’s easy to guess what he would have said
to the government man who wanted him to sell.
Harder to know what he’d say to me,
perched on moss the government set aside
so I can come and listen to ghosts,
while a snail climbs away over a leaf.

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