by Marc Swan

It’s a small show in a grand old
brick synagogue converted to artist
studios — a photographer
is hosting a display
of eight beautifully rendered
montages of the Nabokov butterfly.
Endangered blue the artist calls it.
The intricate drawings
detail history, dimension,
environment, the birth and death
cycle of this small
member of the animal kingdom.
I ask of the process,
the lengthy research needed
to understand and create
these heady illustrations. Holding
a glass of inexpensive white wine,
the artist smiles and begins
to tell her story. First
she asks if I’m a Nabokov fan.
I’ve never had that thought.
Not really, I say, but I’m someone
interested in learning.
She walks and talks from one
to another linking the components
so precisely created. She tells me
of the history of the discovery,
quoting words Nabokov spoke
to describe this delicate species,
of the fires burned in certain
habitats to create ash
for the lupine to flourish — the staple
of the blue butterfly. She tells me
there’re only a few places they thrive.
My head’s drowning in an academic pool.

I find a convenient segue
and bid her a very nice adieu. On the way
out I speak with the photographer.
He tells me of his latest project
on Auschwitz. I’m ready to sink even
lower into an abyss when he explains
the photos are of trees. Trees born
of the dust and dirt of that place.
Trees bent, twisted with a tortured look,
he says, and that is enough.

by Marc Swan

There’s no gunshot or mayhem
just the thought raging like wildfire
inside my head. He’s an older man
just released from Atascadero. We
drew straws in the lunchroom to see
who would meet him. My small office
is dimly lighted, my choice, the cabinet
to my left full of cases of men, women
in need of help. Help. He listens to my
spiel — limited funding, lack of available
resources. I watch his dark eyes narrow,
his hand holding the cane he walked in
with tightens around the shaft. His eyes
follow my eyes to the door, no window,
just a closed door. Before I reach the
waiting list, he draws a slender finely
honed sword from his cane and lays
it across my desk. I’m not in a hurry,
he says, I’ll wait to get what I need.

by Tim Suermondt

To put it in poetic language: it’s raining
Brahmins and sharks — and lately my spirit
and my body have been working in tandem,
growing weaker as hot July draws to a close.
The skies will brighten here soon if the forecast
is correct, and they will brighten at the Club
where the people who did attend will bask
and applaud as the medal is tied around your
neck, Jean — causing me to question my languor
for a good two minutes or three, a rather lengthy
show of rethinking on my part these days.
Your hands will be on the keyboard this night
when you’re back in your room, alone, like
the celebration never happened though the medal
still hangs from your neck and dangles over
what might be the right word you’re looking for,
no proof of validation making any of this easier.
And even I’ll start plugging away again, tomorrow.

by Tim Suermondt

Gray and blue and beautiful, the night
of perfect possibilities is here.
The man wipes his shoes
for some last minute spit and polish.
He can see a pair of sailors
dancing wildly on the white tables
outside the PAN tavern.
He can sense that any moment
Theresa will appear in her red dress
capable of setting the village on fire,
that is if all the men are lucky.
He gets into his shoes, tugs
at his socks and feels his fingertips
burn. Tonight, Aphrodite is on his side.