by Robert VanderMolen

Spotting a van logging

Through beeches, where you hadn’t
Realized there was a road

Staring from your canoe, water lilies
And heron, stumps on the bottom

A murderous quiet
The surface of the lake like skin

*

Well, she did look a little
Like Mia Farrow, though taller

Being seated by her current boyfriend
Beneath a yellow overhang

The sky dim as old Plexiglas

*

It’s tough to remain focused when you’re
Uneasy. The models appearing

Under–aged in the wrinkled magazines
You notice buying rum in the party store

The men on stools, farmers, seem to
Have been sitting there for forty years

The ticking of thermometers
When the sun clears out of the mist

by Robert VanderMolen

Whatever hotel or town it was
He stood on a balcony with a drink
After a long day driving in the heat

The side of his truck was missing paint
From a fire near Seney — but that was his job,
Lumber management, northern division

Years later, perched in a bar in Oregon
I remember his grey slacks,
Pockets dribbling cash from Hollywood,
One of the tallest women I’d ever met
Returning to him from the restroom

It was around that time
He was also considering a run for a seat
On the Chippewa County board of supervisors,
Just to stay cheerful

I’ve always admired Teddy Roosevelt
He told me in an earnest voice,
Relighting his cigar,
Talking to me like I was a small–town reporter . . .

Then added, matter–of–factly,
You must be divorced again

by Floyce Alexander

Photo of scalp hung by one nail.
Mud–smeared window of the cold house.
Some man’s family crowding together.
This earth always counts its losses.
Men kill. Men die. Men
Always. I know. I am one. I kill you.
I hang your head by the long braid
You spend hours preparing for me.
It’s the gun, honey, throw it out
On the black ice. The West’s mad temptation
To kill what can’t be understood.
Children play the dark forest’s mystery.
Sharp crack, then silence.
I have nothing to report. The sand blows:
I love my mother, I hate my father,
I like to shield his eyes and soothe her nerves.
If you want the news, listen to the floor
Where the valley turns to become mountain.
Bright stars blind the moon.
Undo your braid, let it fall over your shoulders.
I want to love you.
How many times . . .
Nothing flows but the lovers’ run,
A long leap. Waterfall. Kill your children
For me. I have no peace. Let me make war,
Send my enemy starving.
It was only a game, one has to lose.
Photo off to the side, out of the light.
A little history to forget how
Conquest feels. Go home.

by Floyce Alexander

Screams rattle the amphitheater
Of lost dreams. A horror film
In progress nears its end.
I’m restless; aren’t you,
Without your bouffant hairdo?
Swarms of bumblebees
Fill the high grass by the ocean.
I was a mere boy with a scythe
Cutting into their playground
By a river irrigating the valley,
A place to grow and die early
If you surrendered your future,
Married and raised children.

Abandoning my picturesque valley.
I left town. Then many towns.
Cities too. Then hummingbirds
Drank the cup of my long life.
They were the brilliant,
The beautiful I needed.
Did they need me? How did
I know? We were there early.
The crowd was just entering.
I thought I knew a good movie
By its director. The Shining, say,
Was nothing like the novel.
We always preferred the dark.
We stayed too late to sleep.

So we made what’s called love.
Living was all there was to do.