Able Muse - a review of poetry, prose and art - Summer 2011 (No. 11 - print edition)
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Able Muse, Summer 2011 (No. 11 - print edition)
The Wishing Fish. I t was one of those days when what you really need is the cold mountain air coming off a lake of snow melt. A day when you need to be spindly and young, light and ready to jump. When you need to have the breath punched out of you when you hit the water. When your teeth need to chatter. When you need water droplets evaporating off your body while you sit on a rock and look down at the sand and gravel clinging to your toes. When what you really want is to be lazy and dreamy, lying side-by-side on a sun-warmed boulder under a hot August sky. I zip Rachel and Marie halfway into their sleeping bags, green and patterned with big red lady bugs, before lying down between them on the air mattress.
I stare up at the sky, through the lens of the atmosphere, deep into the black of outer space, where it is cold and quiet and lonely. The world was too cold for that, so they fell right into that never-ending ocean. And there was a fish who collected them. And then, the earth got so hot that the stars started burning up before they touched the ground. She sounds worried, as if the fish is really out there somewhere, waiting in the water, watching as the stars burn out.
Every so often, one of those old stars gets knocked into a stream and it goes tumbling all the way down the riverbed to the ocean, and the fish is there waiting to bring it back to his home at the bottom of the sea. I raise my hands and so do the girls. The stars shift under our fingers like sand.
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The girls stuff their hands back into the sleeping bags and pull them up to their chins, giggling. I keep one hand up, feeling Deneb pulse beneath my finger, a little throbbing heartbeat just there.
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W hen I was eleven, my mom, who was a Den Mother in the local Cub Scout Pack, used to take me along when the boys went camping. Me, the only girl, with twelve boys, a Cubmaster, and a couple other parents.
I followed trails through wet fields of grass, where the mud sucked onto my hiking boots and squelched as I tromped through it. I picked my way down rocky hills where my only guides were eerie three-stone cairns made of river-tumbled granite. I was accompanied by the most beautiful boy I had ever known. He was strong, and so was I, and we led the rest of the group to the campsite at Lake Margaret, nestled in the glacier-carved California mountains. We never got lost. He was perfect, we both were, with tough limbs and resistance to pain. Because he was just like me, except smarter and faster and better at climbing things.
W hat did you wish for, Rachie? By Reed Houston. By Regan Lu Shieh. By Dana Gioia. By Michael Turner. By Anne Abraham.
By Mary C. By Alexander A. By Anton Pavlovich Chekhov. By Heidi Lynn Staples. By Linda Kandelin Chambers. By Jeremy Sigler. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. By David Lloyd. By Janice Freegard. By Pankaj Sharma Hoshiarpuri. By Mary Jamuna. By Alfa.
By Stanley Moss. By Abigail Rose Boyte. By Alex M. By Daniel Abdal-hayy Moore.
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By Ales Steger. By Velvet D. By George Garrett. By Vincent A. By Nathalie Stephens.
By Elias Ahmed. By Katrina Johnson. By Dulce Maria Loynaz. By Tilahun Mekonnen Goshu. By Walter Wangerin Jr. By Judith Lahaie. By Sarah Wilson. By Kathryn C. By Phil Osopher. By Bruce Weigl. By Mark Hierholzer. By Marlaina Mceachin. By Roman De La Parra. By Brenda Alyss Schaeffer. By Aaron Brown. Shaw Collection, Florida State University. Tallahassee, Fla. Miller Robinson, Fred. How Pleasant to Know Mr. Candace Pezzera.
Providence, R. Harmon, William. Annual of the Modern Language Association 10 : Graziosi, Marco. Baker, William. Imholtz, Augustus A. Colley, Ann C. Woddis, Anna. Gilroy, Andrea and Tessa Dalley.
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London: Routledge, Livingston, Myra Cohn. Edward Lear Bruni Roccia, Gioiella. Ord, Priscilla. New York: Atheneum, Clark, Arthur.