Blue Moon Literary & Art Review
327 12th St,
Davis, CA 95616
ph: (530)902-0026
alt: (530)902-2535
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Showcase
Featured Poem
Wanted: A New Name for Night Dread
by Dorine Jennette
Black dog of 3 a.m., nobody wants you.
Weight on the chest, pad-footed rot.
Jaguars, return to your rubber trees;
tigers, go hunker your grass. Alarm,
skinny arms, no one here is surprised
by your wasting, your warping toward zero.
A bedful of chinquapin spines could be fresh,
but no demon clowns. No calliope wheeze.
If a ten-year-old flogs an accordion?
You’d kick her teeth in, but she’s you—
you made these small friends
somewhere, and that somewhere’s close to bone.
Your rooted dreads, nasturtium-like, are edible,
and proliferate, and grow best in a fog-bound home.
__________
Be sure to check out Dorine Jennette's new poetry collection, Urchin to Follow, now available from The National Poetry Review Press.
Featured Story
Under Cover of Night
From the Memoir:
My Father’s Gardens
by K. Levy
Instead, airport doors slide open as though expecting us, and we have left the darkness outside to be replaced by artificial lights in a world that never sleeps. People are hurrying past us, jockeying for position at terminal gates, lifting overstuffed luggage onto conveyor belts that slither away and swallow their Holy Land souvenirs. The routine is familiar, passports, tickets, the usual questions about our stay, our destination. Who packed your bags? We did. Did you leave them unattended? Of course not. Have you accepted any packages from strangers since your arrival in the terminal? Certainly not, my mother answers, a note of righteous indignation in her voice. I focus my attention on the crowds gathering behind us. An orthodox man in a long black coat, his wife and half dozen children in tow, off to be holy somewhere else. A young couple with love and excitement in their eyes, adventure in the tickets they clasp in their hands. A group of young men on the verge of military service, ink from their high school exams barely dry on their fingers, one last taste of freedom to enjoy before their country calls. And then there is us. Mother efficient and thin lipped as she handles officials, father tense, his dislike for this all too frequent exodus obvious in his pale face. My brother, too young to grieve for a land he does not feel deep down in his bones as I do. And me. Already wondering what is happening to all I left behind. I check my pocket for the list of items friends and neighbors requested we bring back from America. One jar Tasters Choice coffee for Nira, the neighbor across the courtyard. She comes for coffee every afternoon and swears it tastes better in our American cups. One pair Adidas size 13 for a cousin whose feet are outgrowing anything Israeli shoemakers seem to be able to create. Sugarless gum for Ronit, any kind, doesn’t matter. Makeup—Maybelline for Tali who works miracles with a tiny brush and golden powder she sprinkles on her eyelids, glittering shutters coyly lowered when men are around. The list is long, but I tuck it back into my pocket since we are being ushered onto the plane, jostled and pushed by passengers more eager to leave than we must be. We are greeted by flight attendants in perfectly tailored suits, their snowy white teeth smiling at us from beautiful faces in perfect makeup. Their hair looks as though they have just left the beauty parlor, blond waves encircling high cheekbones, silky curls falling where they are told. I become painfully aware of my own unruly hair, the absence of beauty products from my round Slavic face, and the sensible shoes and outfit mother set out for me the night before. You need to be comfortable, she reasons when I complain, her own figure clad in a pant suit both confining and, I am certain of this, fire retardant from its stiff look. You never know what could happen, visions of disaster in her green eyes, premonition of danger in her voice.
We settle back in our seats, morning slowly seeping into the plane’s windows as I bend forward to catch a glimpse of my country waking up. That last glance always surprises me with its added luster, as if the land knows I am leaving and has draped itself in beauty I took for granted the day before. In my mind’s eye I picture the glistening waves of the Mediterranean. Early morning joggers are crushing seashells under their feet as they run past scenery at which they no longer marvel. I can smell the warm sweet scent of bakeries, pastries displayed on trays like so many gleaming jewels. And in a few minutes, Jacob who owns the small grocery down the street, will be rolling out the olive and pickle barrels, brine floating over their tops. I’ve seen him dip his arm and come up with the sour catch, weighing and wrapping the customer’s request in smooth practiced moves.
But now the airplane’s heavy door swings shut with hermetic finality, sealing out the sounds my country is made of. And once I lose sound, sight is quick to follow as the plane begins to roll away from the building where it was attached by a long umbilical corridor. There’s no reason to cry, I try to convince myself, pressing the nails of my right hand into my palm to keep away the hot tears gathering behind my eyelids. Small half moons are left in my fisted hand as I turn my face to the window for a last glimpse of the building, silhouetted soldiers guarding from its rooftop. My father feigns sleep, my mother sits clutching the golden Madonna on the chain around her neck, and the plane gathers speed, swaying palms in the distance, waving goodbye. Be back in a year, I mouth into the oval pane, as we lose our connection with the ground and rise into the sky.
Copyright 2009 Blue Moon Literary & Art Review. All rights reserved.
327 12th St,
Davis, CA 95616
ph: (530)902-0026
alt: (530)902-2535
evans327
