Issue 154
Summer & Fall 2018
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Welcome to TriQuarterly 154. We open this issue with a note of thanks to all those who submitted work for its consideration. I’ve been with TriQuarterly for several years now, and one of the great pleasures of my time with the journal has been in watching the volume of quality submissions rise with every year. 2018 has been no exception. We received so many high-caliber submissions that we actually had to revise our submissions windows in order to keep our response times in check. For editors, it’s a glorious problem to have—one that incites some impassioned debates at the editors’ table over what to publish, and one that allows us to look across the various contenders for themes and through-lines that can help shape an issue.
In selecting work for issue 154, we kept in mind our fifty-year-plus tradition of offering literary commentary on the political and social issues of the day. The poems, stories, essays, and videos in this issue come together to create a kind of literary time capsule, a collection of artistic responses to the all-too-many, all-too-familiar plights that remain so maddeningly present in our world. The work is honest and unflinching, demonstrating an ability to combine language, image, form, and subject matter in a way that produces a visceral response within the reader. I still cannot read Matthew Baker’s “The Visitation,” a story that sets us down in the middle of a lifeless planet inhabited solely by the ghosts of those who destroyed it, without aching at the heartbreaking resolve in its final lines. Or Gabriela Garcia’s “Everything Is Holding You Now,” without feeling the same “rock in [my] throat” that Jeanette (the main character) feels at witnessing the deportation of her immigrant neighbor. That rock remains in place throughout the entirety of the story as Jeanette, a recovering addict, struggles with how to help the young daughter the neighbor left behind, and it remains even now, after several readings. A warning: There is no shortage of fact in this fiction. These aren’t stories you will easily shake.
Also among the unshakable is LaTanya McQueen’s “Portrait of an American Male,” an essay that pieces together a series of found texts to expose the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing aspect of white supremacy in the United States. “He looks like any twenty-something or thirty-year-old,” McQueen quotes. “He is dapper, a buttoned-down millennial,” and we cringe at the realization of how frighteningly normal the face of hatred can appear. McQueen does not add her own commentary to the text and does not need to. We feel her anger at the injustice simmering just below the surface, rising as we progress from line to line.
The poets in issue 154 offer a wide range of responses to the cultural climate, sometimes within the same poem. In Carlie Hoffman’s “The Women of Highbridge Park,” the narrator’s emotions shift from beer-throwing anger to outright confusion over her own cultural identity within the space of a few lines. “Every day,” she says, “I begin to know less / about who I am to America.” For Kathy Z. Price (“And Gwendolyn Brooks”) and Jericho Brown (“Deliverance”), the contemplation turns transcendent. Price transports herself to a table at a poet’s café, weeping into a friend’s shoulder as the great Gwendolyn Brooks spits “ferocious red syllables” out into the crowd, while Jericho Brown imagines himself a sound. “Lord if I could / Become the note [Tramain Hawkins] belts halfway into / The fifth minute of the ‘The Potter’s House,’” Brown says, somehow taking us with him inside the note, allowing us to feel the resounding power of a song we may have never even heard. It is the ability to create that kind of writer-reader connection that makes the work in this issue so vital in these crazy, crazy times. We thank the contributors for tackling these topics, and we thank everyone who submitted their work for making the choice of what to publish so enjoyably difficult.
Carrie Muehle
Managing Editor
Managing Editor: Carrie Muehle
Assistant Managing Editor: Aram Mrjoian
Faculty Advisor: Susan Harris
Director of Planning: Reginald Gibbons
Film Editor: Sarah Minor
Fiction Editors: Joshua Bohnsack, Jennifer Companek, Aram Mrjoian, Marina Mularz, Stephanie Tran
Nonfiction Editor: Molly Sprayregen
Poetry Editor: Dane Hamann
Social Media Editor: Jayme Collins, Aram Mrjoian
Copy Editor: Lys Ann Weiss
Media Architect: Harlan Wallach
Technical Advisors: Alex Miner, Rodolfo Vieira, Nick Gertonson
Staff:
Anne-Marie Akin, Ahsan Awan, Patrick Bernhard, Pascale Bishop, Erika Carey, Jayme Collins, Sara Connell, Bonnie Etherington, Audrey Fierberg, Dan Fliegel, Andrea Garcia, Caitlin Garvey, Ellen Hainen, Salwa Halloway, Madina Jenks, Jonathan Jones, Gretchen Kalwinski, Erin Keogh, Adam Lizakowski, Marssie Mencotti, Natalia Nebel, Devin O'Shea, Hillary Pelan, Nate Renie, Freda Love Smith, Megan Sullivan, Myra Thompson, Katherine Williams
Image from Wings and Wires
1 + 1 = 0 / Body Time No More
The days elongate into shortening hours, into the stiff guard hairs of a dog
Each breath breathes into and through the obstacle of its own breathing
Body sometimes body
If you asked the meaning of an aphorism, I’d say the widening tail of a peacock on fire
while everything falls apart, imagine how you’ll teach your son he is an animal too
as he hugs the dog with his whole body
his weight on top of her not knowing
his own strength or knowing it
far too well
Attachment
I’m told I should get a new husband. This one has gone dead, as they always do. No matter how much I prod him, there’s no response, no way to tell if he can feel it.
The Tennysons
My best friend Mickey’s mom drives a hearse. A 1989 Lincoln, black on the outside—which seems obvious but I have seen silver ones—and black on the inside, with headrests in the front seat that you can pull off and put under your feet as a cushion.
Both and Yet Neither
When I was thirteen, another boy at sleep-away camp—a boy whom I had never spoken to, but who had heard me speak—fixed me with his blue eyes and asked, “Are you a hermaphrodite?”
Before Dawn with Angel Raziel
You bathe with loofahs
Soaked in papaya juice
And delight
In gently draping cloth
Over laughter
Where I Once Spoke Piano, I Now Speak
stone. Where I once spoke cello, I now
speak salt. Where I once spoke oboe, I
now speak scalpel. Where I once spoke
flute, I now speak arpeggio, now fugue,
In Any Given Direction
Maps are floaty things. And not. To be exact. We say our coccyx was one time a
tail. Our sacrum the bone of resurrection.
Flying Colors
Ceci est la couleur de mes rêves. Joan Miró 1925
This is the color of my dreams, Miró tagged forget-me-not blue. Miró, faceless,
has taken my hand. Before we named it, we did not see the sky. We still confuse
each other with ourselves.
Deliverance
Though I have not shined shoes for it,
Have not suffocated myself handsome
In a tight, bright tie, Sunday comes
Again to me as it did in childhood.
Thursday Morning Garbage Pick Up
I’m barefoot in the street
again chasing the truck
with black plastic bags
A Sidling Fire
My oldest asks how one knows
when things that aren’t metal or people
get old, and he is four, so I do not say:
Books fox. Clocks lose time. Flowers
molt and bricks mislay their edges.
Self-Portrait in Green with Collateral Damage and Eucharist
after Saint Hildegard of Bingen
The truly holy person welcomes all
that is earthly, the cut worm and the dirt
in the wound, the tripped land mine and the field
exploding into limitless orange light.
Alberta Georgics
1
Of chinooks smooth-talking small infinities
of wheat; of tar-tanged topsoil,
and of fraying permafrost; of fire’s falsetto
The Women of Highbridge Park
It’s noon on Sunday and they gather
around black milk crates placed in a circle
on tattered blue fishing tarp. It’s not quite
March, but it’s one of those fluke
The Trestle
Crossing the trestle is trespassing. A black and white sign: DANGER KEEP OFF. We don’t. We run the tracks, two Mikes, Debbie Martelli, and me, high-stepping every other tie, avoiding the gaps, trying not to trip and tumble.
The Five Stages of Writing a Story
I. Denial
A mother, a daughter, a son, and a priest walk into the funeral home.
The daughter thinks this could be the beginning of a really bad joke, fodder for a story she will write about another daughter’s life.
Here We Are, Aging Together, Just Like We Said We Would
For your birthday, we pretend
prehistoric. I fill our apartment
with inflatable dinosaurs, scaly ice
cream cake, and raw meat.