Windward Review

C I V I L I T Y 

A N D 

Y O U 

2 0 2 0

Civility 

and You 

WINDWARD 

REVIEW 

Vol. 18 | 2021

Managing Editor/ Senior Editor 

Zoe Elise Ramos Jmj 

Assistant Managing Editor/ Authors' Spotlight Editor 

Dylan Lopez 

Assistant Editors 

All Students of ENGL 4385: Studies in Creative Writing: Literary Publishing, Windward 

Review: Noa Davison | McKahla Delarosa | Marlene De Leon | Juan 

Eguia | Emma Guerra | Breanna Gustin | Jay Janca | Lindi Holland | 

Amanda King | Jayne-Marie Linguist | Seidy Lopez | Steven Nally | 

Celine Ramos | Aric Reyna | Sierra Rios | Amber Robbins | Joseph 

Salinas | Cheyenne Sanchez | Natalie Williams 

Design Team 

Raul Alonzo | Jo Rodriguez | Sara Lutz | Caleigh Sowder | 

Dr. Catherine Quick | Zoe Elise Ramos | All Students of Dr. Catherine Quick's 

ENGL 3378 Documet Design class 

Cover Art Management/ Illustration 

Emma Guerra | Amber Robbins| Zoe Elise Ramos 

Logo Design 

Steven Nally 

Copyeditors 

Zoe Elise Ramos | Dylan Lopez | Sheena Peppler | Celine Ramos| 

Dr. Robin Carstensen 

Associate Blog Editors 

Natalie Williams | Jayne-Marie Linguist | Celine Ramos| 

Sheena Peppler 

Social Media Content Leaders 

Emma Guerra | Breanna Gustin | Jay Janco | Celine Ramos| 

Amber Robbins 

Social Media Content Assistants 

Amanda King | Sheena Peppler| Joseph Salinas | 

Cheyenne Sanchez | Natalie Williams 

Faculty Advisor 

Dr. Robin Carstensen

Funding and Support 

Texas A&M Univiversity- Corpus Christi 

English Dept | Paul and Mary Haas Endowment 

WR is supported by Islander Creative Writers, 

the TAMU-CC creative writing club, run by President 

Sheena Peppler. Find ICW on Facebook, 

Instagram, & Twitter (@Islander Creative Writers) 

Windward Review, journal and blog: 

windward-review.com. Also find us on Facebook, 

Instagram, & Twitter.

CONTENTS 

11-12 Sister Lou Ella 

Hickman, I.W.B.S 

civility: a creature of hunger 

the state of the nation: 

13-14 Jesse Sensibar 

Doubts at Daybreak Cutting 

Wood 

Christmas Soldiers 

15-17 PW Covington 

The Coldest Place I’ve Been 

The Enemy 

18-19 Elyssa Albaugh 

Dollhouse 

20-24 Norma Barrientes: 

"Civility and I" 

Abandonada y Desconcertada 

La vida a las escondidas 

Reduced to Tears 

25-26 Joshua Bridgwater 

Hamilton 

Discoveries 

Failed Geographies 

27-29 Chris Ellery 

Spit 

A Fence Got Tired of Being a 

Fence 

30-32 Ash Miller 

The Crane & The Ivory Tower 

Thoughtless Prayers 

33-34 Holly Day 

Retribution 

Day with the Birds 

35-45 Harlan Yarbrough 

Dry Land 

46-48 Michael Quintana 

A.M. 

The Lot 

Cords 

49-51 Jeffrey Alfier 

Navesink River Sunday 

Missoula Northside 

American Woman in Warsaw 

52-54 Sarah Webb 

Joining the Revolution 

At The Rally to Restore Sanity 

and/or Fear 

55-56 Karen Cline-Tardiff 

Allison 

57-58 Andrena Zawinski 

Plumes 

59 Don Mathis 

The Dominant One 

60-67 Penny Jackson 

Patricia 

A Hole in Her Head 

The Women of the Frick Museum 

68-69 W.D. Mainous II 

A Ghost at Nana’s 

Requiem for a Friend

70-84 Jerry Craven | Terry 

Dalrymple | Andrew Geyer: 

"Magic Realism in Graphic Art" 

72 Jerry Craven 

Malachite Cross and Seven Sisters 

73 Andrew Geyer 

This Strange Malachite Art 


Clarissa Green 

75-77 Terry Dalrymple 

Clarissa's Spirit 


Curadora Angels 

79 Andrew Geyer 

Rosita's Instructions to the Painter 

80-81 Jerry Craven 

The Nightwatch 

82-84 Andrew Geyer 


85-86 Jose Olade 

Candela 

87-90 Ianna Chay 

One Night 

Today I Thought About How 

91-92 Victoria Phillips 

Parsing 

Love Song to Toxic Bonds 

93-94 Clarissa M. Ortiz 

The Becoming of Wind 

and Wildfire 

95-98 Jacob R. Benavides 

You or I 

99-112 ROBB JACKSON 

MEMORIAL HIGH SCHOOL 

POETRY AWARDS 

102 Jamie Soliz 

Confession, Confession, 

Confession 

104 Katie Diamond 

A moonlit stroll 

105 Mackenzie Howard 

Doubt 

106 Eliana Martinez 

2007 

107-108 Kevin Craig 

Do You Remember? 

109 Nailea Vasquez 

6 

110 Ciara Rodriguez 

Hey mom, Hey dad 

111-112 Xavier Angelo Ruiz 

The Way of the Seasons 

113-116 Joseph Wilson 

Sophocles and Fireflies 

Undated Photograph of my Mother 

with her Three Sisters 

On Reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" 

Out Loud 

117 Jacinto Jesús Cardona 

The Old Courtesy Clerk 

118-121 Rob Luke 

So Junior High 

The Actors Guild 

122-123 Alan Berecka 

Don’t It Always Seem to Go 

Petty Expectations

124-125 Suynayna Pal 

The concierge at the Hyatt 

126 Margaret Erhart 

The Gift of Thank You 

127-139 Patricia Alonzo 

A Voice for My Grandfather: 

A Mexican and an American 

140-143 Rossy Evelin Lima 

Tlalli Iyollo 

144-145 Juan Manuel Pérez 

Lament for Wounded Knee I 

Lament for Wounded Knee II 

146-149 James Trask 

Destruction of the House of Wisdom 

Vasyl and Maria 

I'm Done 

150-152 Nels Hanson 

The City in the Sea 

The Sorrow of Roses 

153 Darren C. Demaree 

it ain’t a choir #28 



154-155 Crystal Garcia 

Individual vs. Gov’t 

156-157 Patricia Walsh 

Fire Alarm 

Public House 

158-159 Ken Hada 

At the Zoo 

Wind 

160-161 Laurence Musgrove 

Bandage Sutra 

162-186 WINDWARD REVIEW 

Blog: Writing as Resilience 

164-165 "How Are You Doing with 

the Coronavirus?" 

166-168 Trev Trevino | Brittaney 

Maxey | Katie McLemore 

COVID-19 Chazals by Islander Creative 

Writers 

169-173 Joseph Salinas | Cheyenne 

Sanchez | Amber Robbins 

We Are Legends: Tales of Survival 

During the COVID-19 Pandemic 

174-176 Jay Janca 

Being Over Being Overwhelmed: Transi 

tioning to Onling Learning 

177-179 Natalie Williams 

Parenting Through a Pandemic 

180-183 Amanda King 

Notes from the Frontlines of Kinder 

and Elementary Level Parenting 

Through Pandemics 

184-186 Aric Reyna 

Being a Parent-Teacher-Student During 

Covid-19 Quarantine 

187-194 CONTRIBUTOR’S NOTES

EDITOR'S NOTE TO READERS 

I don’t really know how to write this. I could start by thanking all the helpers and 

contributors that made this volume outstanding. But that would be many, many thank 

yous. I also had the idea of listing out all the mistakes I have made throughout this 

process. This wouldn’t be hard, because I already have a list made. However, my 

mantra as an editor has been one phrase: this is not about me. This volume is not about 

me or the things I could have done better, it is about Civility and You. 

We chose Civility and You as our theme because we wanted to document the US 

election (2020) and reactions to it on a personal level. We didn’t want to highlight 

divisiveness/ political polarity; we wanted to underline contrasting emotions and 

tautologies, the quiet stories and intimate truths that constitute the complex 

human perspective. That said, we never could have anticipated how 2020 would play 

out—how a global pandemic would put our lives and our livelihoods at stake, and 

how the fight for racial justice would experience its 21st century apex. But with this 

backdrop of upheaval, Civility and You became a richer story than I even expected. 

I know that I have already said so, but I am truly overwhelmed with gratitude towards 

our contributors this year. We have all had to grapple with the abstract, untamable 

nature of civility, characterizing it in our lives and hearts during these times of strife 

and isolation. In juxtaposing and entangling voices together, Civility and You works 

to address a universal unknown: the meaning of ‘civility’. With this publication, I 

wanted contributors and readers to see value in theirs’ and others’ work that they 

couldn't see before. It was in our mission that each accepted piece, as it is showcased, 

would become irreplaceable and fully resonant, like the notes of a chord. 

With that, I must admit, I had hoped that those responding to our call for submissions 

(2020) would be stymied by the ambiguous word, ‘civility’. Because I wanted contributors 

to respond intuitively rather than methodically. I was interested in the term ‘civility’ in 

part because it is a word that tends to meet its opposite. Teresa Bejan wrote about this 

in the book, Mere Civility (2017). In short, ‘civility’ may become ‘incivility’ when it is reduced 

to the status of a social more. For example, it is often said that one ought to have 

‘civility’ while speaking with someone of a different opinion than one’s own,... so as to 

alleviate tension and reduce argumentation. But this ‘civility’ can also act to censor voices 

and activity, maintaining social and class barriers. Thus, ‘civility’, which is meant to bring 

peace and the interchanging of ideas, may bring civil unrest and oppression instead. 

For ‘civility’ to capture both what it is and its opposite means that ‘civility’ is probably 

a socially deterministic idea. In fact, careful readers would question my insinuation 

that there is an absolute what-it-is to civility, because there may not be an 

absolute definition of it. The readers of this text (writers and artists) will probably 

be aware of and comfortable with this slipperiness of language. But I want to take 

pause and question: what is implied by ‘civility’ being a slippery, relative term? And 

why is ambiguity here both useful and also slightly unsettling (at least to me)? 

For one, this 'ambiguity of civility' bears a resemblance to cultural moral relativism, 

where there is no absolute ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in regards to morality, just cultural 

or local experiences dictating these. I would note that cultural moral relativism is 

very hard to swallow for most people. Because, think about it: do you really want 

to accept that your rich sense of morality is nothing but what you’ve been taught 

through cultural/ lifetime exposure? Maybe some of us are okay with this, but what 

can we possibly do when there are disagreements between us? Is it simply impossible 

to understand each other’s point of view, all because we are culturally dissimilar?

More importantly, if morality was absolutely relative, what could we do to 'improve' society? 

Relativity would seem to make ‘improvement’ impossible, because there are no 

'better' moral values. In fact, there is a paradox here: moral relativism affirms 

that morality is both culturally taught and also cannot, by definition, be taught 

(because ‘teaching’ as an activity implies that there is a ‘best’ morality that can 

and should be ‘taught’). In fact, moral ‘teaching’ in a relative world is the equivalent of 

cultural erasure/ subjugation. Because we couldn't possibly be acting morally while 

thrusting our morals on other cultures. Thus, with relativism, there is no necessary 

or even permissible engagement, no impetus for reacting to one another’s’ point of 

view, and no way to empathize with each other completely (because we do not 

share a moral and rational situation, in either our localities or our minds). Actually, 

relativism would seem to make ‘morality’ and ‘civility’, however one thinks of 

these terms, nonexistent, akin to abstract impulses in the brain that have the taste 

of something different for everybody. 

To be sure, I value relativism for its emphasis on the equality between different 

points of view, a contribution which should not be overlooked. And I expect that 

there are evolutionary influences on morality as well (a biological perspective that 

could be paired with relativism in order to explain moral values). But to me, moral 

debates only serve to reveal just how incomplete humankind’s understanding of 

‘morality’ and ‘civility’ are: we are only at the stage of trying to interpret how to 

interpret what these things are, with the possibility that these things (morality, etc.) 

may not even be things in themselves. And we are, at the same time, trying to understand 

how and why to interpret our interpretations of our interpretations of our 

interpretations (and so on continuously, until no moral ‘facts’ seem assured anymore). 

If you think about it, most human knowledge is structured with this circular 

incompleteness. And unless we are delusional, we are in no place to say literally 

anything for certain. 

I only bring up relativism in order to explain my fascination with ‘civility’ and why 

I believe it’s important to collect voices around this topic. I want to put forth that 

relativism should not be the end of the story with ‘civility’. I agree that ‘morality’ 

and ‘civility’ are labels, referring to things that are much more complex than we 

are capable of fully knowing right now. But here we are in this technology-oriented 

age and we have to recognize that words are meaningful in a physical way. Words 

can hurt and alleviate pain, and also, words can be used to overcome differences 

between groups of people. Words, in fact, have a deep affect because they possess 

the dynamism of reality. This dynamicism arises from meanings (of words) unfolding 

and refolding, igniting and fuming, burning up into nothing recognizable, and 

then, becoming what they once were or something irreversibly different. I am 

very much not the first one to notice this. But maybe I am one of the first to think 

of words as the most important quality of human existence, considering how sole 

‘words’ are to the human experience in comparison to other animals. 

Words may be labels, but they also connect us, to ourselves and each other, in ways 

that can’t be denied or explained. Because no single piece of writing can fully address 

Civility, enlightenment must be beyond the single voice—hidden in motifs, hunches, 

and unexpected bonds. This is why the collecting of voices is so special, powerful 

and reconciling. 

This year especially, we were happy to include contributors with diverse and 

divergent viewpoints, feelings, styles, and backgrounds. This final product is not 

just a snapshot of various viewpoints either. Somehow, bringing these pieces together 

created a distinct and united narrative fabric: the story of Civility and 

You, 2020 (published 2021). Whether you are in this journal or not, you are most 

certainly a part of its story. 

-Zoe Ramos, Senior/ Managing Editor (2020)

Sister Lou Ella Hickman, I.W.B.S. 

civility: a creature of hunger 

would that we could know hunger 

our skin 

and 

bone marrow 

where we all bleed the same color 

yet for some hunger 

is as ethereal as a song 

hanging in the air then gone 

others it drills as if for oil 

pounding through the crust 

until denial breaks gushes up 

a spindletop of dark matter 

still others satiated on living 

unaware of life 

finally there are those who are lost 

in their own maze 

consuming consumed in their pain 

there you have it 

hunger our skin our marrow our blood our pain 

spilling out of lives what so many cannot see 

Civility + You 

11

Sister Lou Ella Hickman, I.W.B.S 

the state of the nation 

like two parents 

the right and the left 

shrill their quarreling 

does 

anyone notice 

the blame they spew 

lavas through the divide 

between each side 

terrified 

terrified 

terrified 

now 

i ask 

how many people have 

stop! 

trapped in their throats 

12 WINDWARD REVIEW | Vol. 18

Jesse Sensibar 

Doubts at Daybreak Cutting Wood 

I wake at 3:30AM with failing eyesight 

the birds not ‘till 5 but sharp-eyed. 

Sharp-eyed in the breaking light 

failed sight in the dark before dawn. 

They thrive, swallow tiny things that feed birds. 

I cannot see my way past the Monsoon 

lightning flash to Oak cordwood stacked. 

I cannot strive to cut and double-bit 

axe-split what warms my winters. 

All that I have not swallowed. 


13


Christmas Soldiers 

In the military town trailer parks of South Tucson, Arizona 

old Christmas soldiers waste away last years in the sun of 

darkened Silver Streaks behind the Saint Charles Tavern 

while the rolling sounds of Spanish, TAC planes, and the taste 

of cold beer and Korean pickled eggs roll off of tongues 

made tired by pulled wires, missing electrical services, and 

talk of cancer and government shutdowns. It’s another 

Christmas in the desert in the shadow of the VA hospital 

grounds, where the Christmas soldiers trade peaceful nights 

for PX benefits. 


PW Covington 

The Coldest Place I’ve Been 

The coldest place I’ve been 

Is this over-heated room 

Santa Fe trails lead in circles 

7 cycles of the Sangre de Christos 

I feel I’ll always be a visitor, here 

Port cities and border towns embrace you 

When you show up 

With empty pockets and wide eyes 

Shaking knees and a mixed-breed, free-verse, smile 

Treat you like you’re from there, if only for a while 

But, this place rips your spleen from your side 

And goes about its Thursday afternoon 

It’s the feeling that 

The Universe is laughing behind 

Your back 

At a joke told in a language you’ve never worked with 

And while everyone 

Says they yearn for freedom and something new 

Very few 

Stand prepared to welcome a traveler 

Or cast off the familiar 

Everyone should be a part of somewhere 

They say 

But not you 

Not me 

The coldest place I’ve been 

Is this over-heated room 


15

I’ll drink my delusions over ice 

Tonight 

I’ll rise in the morning 

And drive west all day 

Night time highway navigation 

Brings back friendly faces and echoes of places 

That have held out welcome 

Rattle around in roadside men’s rooms 

Condom machines and gasoline 

Still paying for the gas… 

It never lasts long 

The eternity of an insular scene 

And local heroes, honored through decades 

Klatches and cliques 

Never approve 

Of the language I use 

New-In-Town blues 

Cold rooms and sad tunes 

It never lasts long 


PW Covington 

The Enemy 

The C-130’s 

Over my mountain garden 

Take me back 

Sometimes we landed at their airports 

Turboprop drone 

ZZZough! 

Or, we’d come in on big, grey, airplanes 

Jet engines whining 

Or, we landed on silent silk 

Sometimes rotor blades 

Chopped their air 

Like Satan’s own mother 

Bleating in dark and deadly passionate rage 

And they’d hide 

Doing their best to dodge and outlast 

The hate and ignorance 

We carried with us 

Strapped to our chests 

Slung under our wings 

Where cold hearts beat 

With the courage of armed 19 year-olds 

The bravest of them 

Stood up, shot back 

Did what they could do 

And we were told to 

call them 

The enemy 


17

Elyssa Albaugh 

Dollhouse 

Pink wallpaper chips off of 

Yellow plaster walls. 

Miniature girls in 

Yellow daisy dresses 

Dance alongside their bloodied brothers. 

Girls play games with love and war, 

And life isn’t much different. 

Peculiar purple and periwinkle sparks 

Adorn houses making art, 

Making all of us a part of something, 

My dolls all want to be a part of something, 

So they make copper wire trees, 

Covered in moldy green leaves 

With red and olive colored beads 

Hot glued to their pink plastic play houses, 

The yellow daisy dancers would chase all the men, 

And the red disco divas would sing again and again, 

While the major monsters massacre each other, 

Just beyond the bend. 

The lovely ladies leap, 

And their hearts fill with care, 

As the sultry soldiers line up, 

With their pretty plastic hair, 

To fight the magic monsters, 

And yes 

some will die 

Some won’t have limbs 

And some won’t have eyes 


And there will be wives 

Who despise their husbands 

For things they can’t control, 

The sad soldiers will feel like their souls 

Are frozen 

When the lovely ladies leap across them, 

While they are sleeping on the street. 

In a war they had no business fighting for, 

The solemn soldiers have lost everything, 

And more. 

The pretty periwinkle politicians 

Sip 

tiny tactical tea, 

Going over all the reasons, 

Not to let the monsters be, 

Deciding something along the lines of prosperity, 

Sweet soldiers gladly die, 

In the name of a country that is free, 

But those who live longer 

Get to see, 

Maybe their country isn’t all it said it’d be. 

It was a game that seemed to transcend time, 

It’s funny because games are like that when you’re 9, 

But one day you’re twenty-four, 

And you’re sent somewhere 

For a war you didn’t volunteer for, 

Are poverty and discrimination what we’re fighting for? 

Because this war just paves the way for more 

There’s a reason our veterans are poor, 

We never gave them the chance to soar, 

We said we’d make them stronger, 

Chaining them down longer, 

While our plastic politicians 

Keep perfect peace programs at bay 

The only thing that’s different now, 

Is that now we use people’s lives in our games. 


19

Norma Barrientes 

"Civility and I" selected artwork 

Abandonada y 

Desconcertada 

Abandoned and 

Bewildered 

Many children carry the weight of abuse in 

relationships. Many end up in a cyclic continuum. 

The lack of civility in abuse has a domino 

effect across all races in every generation. 

Some parents claim that they do love their 

children but do not have the wherewithal to 

get help for themselves in order to express it 

in a gentle, mannerly way. The child depicted 

in this piece is sitting in a corner with her 

hands covering her eyes to illustrate the feeling 

of abandoment and bewilderment that 

abuse elicits. 

-Norma Barrientes 





21


"Civility and I" selected artwork 

La vida a las 

escondidas 

Life in the 

Shadows 

(Life in the shadows) is a reflection of an 

abused woman's life dodging the public eye 

and the stigma that it brings. Our family was a 

family without abuse but we saw it first hand 

in our relatives. My mother had her hand 

in bringing battered children with their 

mother to our home, to feed them and give 

them refuge on several occasions, for many 

years while I was growing up. I don't think 

any family can say that they have not had a 

loved one experience similar situations in 

one way or another. -Norma Barrientes 


La vida a las escondidas 


23


Reduced to Tears 

24 WINDWARD REVIEW | Vol. 18 

End of special section: "Civility and I"

Joshua Bridgwater Hamilton 

Discoveries 

A hatchling 

fell from the eaves 

where the starlings 

roost. The folded 

leather 

and scruff 

lurched towards my daughter’s stroller— 

the thatchy feathers 

revealing its tiny bulb of blood 

and tissue underneath. 

“Uh-oh,” 

daughter 

too young to understand 

what those failing footsteps meant. 

My wife and I 

conferred: caretaking, 

empathy, short lesson 

long on loss; 

or added burden 

to a taut schedule 

(shoebox, bedding, feeder). 

I glove my hands 

and place the bird 

in a patch of grass— 

a guilty, 

underwhelming 

farewell. 


25


Failed Geographies 

1. 

Ocean stills monumental body 

before organs, slate curve 

a faceless expression below 

rock coral trench glowing blood 

sputtering formless – pure surge 

conceals nothing – I turn 

from clarity, face you – 

all set to speak 

the same register: painful 

sobriety this morning – 

our transgressions sketched years 

ago in sepia and digital quartz, 

impression of fingers quickly 

scratching outlines, bathing suit 

seams, nippled chests. 

Even so we do not 

communicate. For that 

standing on this Galician cliff 

I fold my packet of regret 

insufficient 

into your palm. 

2. 

The bar where I meet you 

sprouts warm from rocky 

Inishmore, full of hands and deep 

vowels, the breaths inhale the small 

company of adventurers – two Scottish 

women and me. Locals, tourists 

build our dancing armatures, 

tongues & gestures blotting 

into smeared imprecision 

the frothy channels of desire 

tumbling our spines. Later 

your face fills the night, thick 

brogue whisky sharp in mouth 

divulging, fingers slipping 

the bottle of Jameson. 

Back against tight geometry 

of stone wall, hand-placed 

tablets arranging flesh, 

your mouth on me, the full 

sky does not let go. 

Though we do not make 

lovers, the untethered island 

reeling out from under us, 

I want to at least set 

a bright ember of happiness 

into your stubbled chest, brief glow 

back to the hostal – 

and for that, now and late, 

I give you this poem. 


Chris Ellery 

Spit 

It was the year of love. It was the year of dreams. 

It was the year of water cannons and Wallace for President. 

It was the year when Clyde and I 

were the only boys in Journalism class. 

The girls assigned us two to roam the school 

in search of scoops. Most days we’d end up at 

the Field House vending machines to split 

a Coke or Nehi and laugh in the luck of our fantasies: 

all those girls in our class, all to ourselves, all wanting us. 

As we passed our bottle back and forth, 

we named the ones we wished to kiss 

until the final bell dismissed 

all our delusions of sexual bliss. 

One day one of us suddenly said, “Talk like this 

could get us both lynched.” All at once his blackness 

opened up and let me in, his unfinished history, 

red with terror and with pain my skin 

could never reckon or comprehend. 

That news was a kind of anointing. 

When we passed our chalice of purple soda 

from his hand to mine, from my hand to his, 

our hands agreed to some unspoken covenant. 

Neither of us wiped the spit. 


27

Riots erupted in our school that year. 

Lockers burned. Belts and fists. 

Car windows shattered on the parking lot. 

School dismissed. 

Because we were friends, Clyde and I, 

classmates cursed and spit on us. 

All through the rage we stayed inside a faith 

more intimate than a kiss— 

daring, dangerous, deathless, deep, 

streaming like the blood on our southern streets. 


Chris Ellery 

A Fence Got Tired of Being a Fence 

A fence that kept these worlds apart 

Decided just to up and move away. 

I guess it got tired of keeping worlds apart, 

So it just upped and moved away. 

Have you seen what becomes of This and That, 

What happens to the Other when a fence is removed? 

When worlds that once were two are not, 

The Now-One World is greater than two. 

When there isn’t any more Over There, 

There can’t be any more Don’t Come Here. 

So everywhere the wind blows through 

Is Hallowed Ground—One Ground, not two. 

Thanks to the fence that moved away 

The two old worlds are One and New. 

It shows us all what we ask a fence to do: 

Keep them out and keep us in. 

Keep the good things in for us. 

Keep the bad things out for them. 

Consider what could be—and should— 

If all the fences woke up one day 

And saw they weren’t doing any good, 

So they just upped and moved away. 


29

Ash Miller 

The Crane & 

The Ivory Tower 

With zer long, 

thin legs, 

the crane 

climbed 

the spiraling 

steps of the ivory tower. The 

tower expanded further than 

the crane could see, for ze knew 

no other life. Indoctrinated, as 

they all were as children, the 

crane couldn’t imagine life outside 

the tower. 

In the heart of the tower laid 

a single computer. Many wires 

curled out of the computer like 

long tentacles, stretching their 

way through the insides of the 

tower and out the window, thoroughly 

coiling around it. 

Once reaching zer room, the 

crane nestled zerself in front of 

the computer. Typing on the 

keyboard was difficult, given the 

light tap-tap of zer white feathers, 

but the crane managed. After 

all, the crane loved zer job 

despite the difficulties. 

At times, it was hard to remember 

all the rules that came 

with living in the heart of the 

tower. The crane obeyed though, 

lest the lurking shadows behind 

zer swallowed the crane whole. 

Firstly, the crane mustn’t address 

any of the ivory higher-ups 

directly. There were always other 

people, other underlings, to go 

through first. 

Secondly, the crane mustn’t 

use any practical words. 

This is because lastly, most importantly, 

the crane mustn’t type 

anything ill-favored about the 

ivory tower. The ivory tower, how 

it gently cradled the disadvantaged, 

how it soothed them, how 

it promised them a better future 

while simultaneously plummeting 

them further into debt. 

The crane typed each day, 

obeying the rules, obeying the 

system set in place. The pitter-patter 

of the keyboard sent 

messages through the wires, 

which circled around the tower. 

A final click here and there. 

On screens throughout the tower, 

the ivory messages went out. 


At times, opportunities came 

to the crane. Within the confines 

of the rules and careful in 

zer words, the crane uplifted the 

voices of the disadvantaged. 

At times, the crane carefully 

held zer tongue in zer black beak. 

The crane repeated the same, 

tired mantra to zerself. 

The ivory tower is great. 

The ivory tower cares. 

The ivory tower upholds diversity; 

all beasts are equal in the 

eyes of the ivory tower. 

The crane’s elongated, white 

neck peeked out the window, 

between nests of gray wires, and 

breathed in the fresh air. Cranes 

flew. Ze read that in a book somewhere. 

Wind brushed against zer 

feathers and for a small moment, 

eyes closed, the crane imagined 

zerself free amongst the blue. 

The shadows wisped at zer 

ankles, twisting and coiling and 

pulling. 

The crane went back to typing. 


31

Ash Miller 

Thoughtless Prayers. 

O, Mother Earth– 

I miss you. I crave you. I don’t know if you remember me. To 

be honest, I’m unsure if we’ve met properly. But I dream of you. 

Of what you used to be, gleaned from fables and faded photo albums. 

I long for you. 

Every night, before sleep lulls me, I pray. I’m not the praying 

type. But for you? Anything. Anything to shake off this desperate 

yearning, this doomed clairvoyance. Allow me, please, to transform 

this ache into a tribute worthy of your former beauty. 

O, Mother Earth, what do you ask of me? 

Each morning, I awake alone. No answers or granted boons. 

Instead, each morning, death breathes its familiar hello into your 

soil. I do not wish for pollution-burdened lungs. I do not wish 

for diseased water to stagnate in my gut. I do not wish for skin 

pecked by pests and pathogens. 

O, Mother Earth, what sacrifice may I yield at your altar? 

Merely utter the word and I will extend my prayers. Allow 

me to pray into the night, cycle into the day, and reach beyond 

our clock’s t-t-ticking hands. Allow my prayers to tower until they 

reach the moon so that they may whisper my pleas to the stars. 

Allow me to pray through the violence. Allow my prayers to wash 

you in a fountain of Demeter’s tears and suture the carvings we 

inflicted on your most holy flesh. 

Say the word and I will grant a life for a life. Do you wish 

for my children? Have them! Take my children and my children’s 

children. Let this blood-stained altar grant me longevity! Say the 

word and you may have countless lives, for we can always procure 

the expendable. 

O, Mother Earth, why must you forsake my prayers? Are they 

not enough? 


Holly Day 

Retribution 

The maple sends its helicopter seeds across the yard 

in desperation dreams of propagation. The woman rakes most of them up 

rip out the long roots of the ones that slip past her 

take root and try to grow, wondering 

if her tree hates her, if it feels angry when it sees her 

with her gardening shears clipping its offspring close to the ground 

or if it’s resigned itself to the fact that it will never be surrounded 

by a forest of its own family. The woman thinks of these violent acts 

during heavy storms when the limbs of the tree whips around her roof 

if it’s using the wind and the lightning as an excuse to drop branches 

and clumps of leaves on her lawn, if it’s aiming for the woman and her own children 

in an act of retaliation so sly it won’t ever be blamed. 


33

Holly Day 

Day with the Birds 

The little sandpiper dances in the incoming outgoing surf 

chasing the receding tide as though involved in an elaborate game of tag. 

Even though I know it’s been drawn to the spot by the expulsion of air bubbles 

of tiny bivalves and crustaceans buried just below the surface 

I can’t help but think it’s playing with the water itself. 

Overhead, gulls circle in great, expansive rounds, eyeing me and my lunch 

the silver fish flashing briefly in the surf. My grandfather used to tell me 

never fall asleep on the beach, or the gulls will come down 

and peck out your eyes before you can wake up and get away. 

I shield my eyes against the sun, watching the birds dip and dive into the water 

emerge with flopping prey in their beaks 

refusing to believe that anything so beautiful can hurt me. 


Harlan Yarbrough 

Dry Land 

Even in wet times, 

neither Lake 

Coongie nor Lake 

Goyder reached 

more than ten feet 

in depth at their deepest points. 

After two full years of drought, 

neither held the slightest trace 

of water, and their fissured clay 

beds looked and felt as dry as 

the adjacent Sturt’s Stony Desert. 

The changing climate meant the 

droughts came more often and 

lasted longer, and no water flowing 

in from what Cam had grown 

up calling Cooper’s Creek but 

had finally learned to call Cooper 

Creek, which meant both 

lakes remained dry more often 

than not. Goyder, at the extreme 

tail end of that branch of Cooper 

Creek and with high dunes 

north of it, always filled after all 

the others. 

Cam had expected the 

drought to turn Lake Yamma 

Yamma’s bed to a dry clay pan, 

and it didn’t disappoint him 

when he’d reached it two days 

earlier. Eight hours on outback 

roads had brought him as close 

as he wanted to drive his old 

dual-cab pickup to whatever 

might remain of Lake Yamma 

Yamma—or Lake Mackilop, as 

the old-timers called it. He’d 

spent that first night in the back 

of the pickup, with the tailgate 

open for maximum air circulation. 

The next morning, Cam 

had walked the five hours to the 

middle of Lake Yamma Yamma’s 

dry bed, looked around, and 

taken a few pictures. 

He’d brought his summer-weight 

sleeping bag and 

thought about spending the 

night in the middle of the dry 

lake. In theory, the rains could 

return at any time, but Cam 

didn’t expect them this year. 

Although everyone called this 

season “The Wet”, the warmer 

ambient temperatures and the 

El Niño over the Pacific made 

significant rain in the Warrego 

Ranges extremely unlikely. 

Even if Cooper Creek did, 

against all odds, begin filling 

Lake Yamma Yamma, the lake 

could not possibly rise enough 

overnight to reach a level over 

his head. If he found water 

seeping into his sleeping bag, 

he could simply stand up and 

saunter back to his pickup. 

Even the remote possibility 


35

sounded unpleasant, though, so 

he made the five hour walk back 

to his beat up pickup and arrived 

with the sun hanging above the 

western horizon. 

Still smarting from the latest 

tongue-lashing he’d received 

from his wife two days earlier, 

Cam had driven back onto the 

Arrabury Road the next morning 

and then two hours south to 

the euphemistically named Arrabury 

Airport. Not surprised 

to find nobody there, he looked 

at and photographed—and felt 

impressed by—the two runways, 

then turned west and crossed 

into South Australia, where 

the road immediately became 

rougher and narrower. 

Yvonne told Cam at least 

twenty times a year how much 

she hated living with him. Afterward, 

she usually told him 

she “didn’t mean it”, but he 

couldn’t help wondering which 

were her real feelings. His latest 

twelve-month consulting 

job had stretched to eightteen 

months and paid more than 

Yvonne’s three years of teaching 

primary school, but still 

she criticized him for not going 

out and finding another job— 

not that there were any other 

jobs within two hundred miles. 

About three weeks out of every 

month, Yvonne found fault with 

almost everything about Cam. 

He wondered why he hadn’t 

grown used to to the abuse by 

now, and maybe he sort of had. 

After twenty years of Yvonne’s 

put-downs, name-calling, and 

general vilification—almost 

none of it justified—Cam 

remained in their marriage. He 

never wondered why about that, 

and it wasn’t just for the sake of 

the children. Although he did 

not like feeling under attack most 

of the time, Cam loved his wife. 

After Yvonne’s tirades, one 

or the other of their children— 

rarely both—would often come 

to him and sympathize, say they 

thought he’d been treated unfairly. 

That reduced but never completely 

eliminated the sting, and 

now they were no longer at home. 

For the past month, Yvonne 

had complained almost constantly 

about the weather—too 

hot—and the house they were 

renting—too dilapidated and 

too small—and always managed 

to make it sound as if it were all 

Cam’s fault. For five or six years, 

she had complained every summer 

about the heat—“It never 

used to get this hot,” as if Cam 

were singlehandedly responsible 

for anthropogenic climate change. 


The family owned a perfectly 

good house in the beautiful valley 

of the Illinois River in southern 

Oregon—and paid a neighbour 

a small stipend to look 

after the place—but even there 

she found excuses to complain. 

As long as Cam had known her, 

she had complained about the 

weather for six months every 

year. Yvonne had been diagnosed 

with Seasonal Affective 

Disorder, but giving it a name 

didn’t make living with her unjustified 

anger any easier for her 

husband or their kids. 

Three hours of leisurely 

driving from the uninhabited 

Arrabury brought Cam to Cordillo 

Downs Station, where he 

stopped to look at the largest 

woolshed in Australia. 

Vegetarian for fifteen years, 

Cam nevertheless felt pleased 

to discover that the 140-year-old 

Cordillo Downs Station formed 

a major part of a 27,000 acre organic 

beef operation. He also 

felt pleased to escape the crippling 

heat in the surprisingly 

cool interior of the stone and 

mud woolshed. Always eager to 

acquire new knowledge, Cam 

delighted in learning the two 

foot thick walls had been built in 

1883 and witnessed the shearing 

of 100,000 sheep a year in days 

long past. 

As Cam climbed back into 

his pickup at Cordillo Downs, 

he thought of his family. Ben, 

the elder, could have enrolled 

at Southern Oregon University 

and earned his degree close 

to home, but he liked Eugene, 

so the University of Oregon 

seemed the natural choice. 

He had surprised himself by 

enjoying his studies more than 

he expected and the party life of 

Eugene less than he expected. 

Ben emailed his father every 

week or two and said he’d probably 

message his dad more often 

if the old man would get on 

Facebook. A big Portland law 

firm had offered Ben a scholarship 

and a part-time job, so he 

planned to collect his bachelor’s 

degree and remain in Eugene to 

make the transition from undergraduate 

life to law school at the 

end of the academic year. 

Ben’s sister Alice had joined 

Ben as a U of O student at the 

beginning of the year but rarely 

saw her brother, both because 

their academic work kept 

them busy and because they 

socialized with different friends. 

Alice continued to achieve academic 

success commensurate 

with her exceptional abilities 

and seemed to enjoy her rather 

demanding undergraduate life. 


37

She emailed her dad two or three 

days a week except when confronting 

a major project deadline 

or preparing for an exam. 

Both offspring, children no 

longer, appeared comfortably 

independent. Neither seemed 

to miss their father’s perennial 

affection and support, as they involved 

themselves with their own 

busy lives. They didn’t need Cam. 

For more than a decade, 

Yvonne had regularly told Cam 

that she wanted out of their relationship. 

He had consistently replied, 

“OK, if that’s what you really 

want.” Within five or six days, 

she usually said, “No, of course I 

want us to be together.” Even so, 

the cumulative stress had begun 

to wear Cam down. Two days 

ago, Cam had for the first time 

offered a different response: “Be 

careful what you wish for.” 

“I just wish I didn’t have to be 

with you,” Yvonne had said. 

“You don’t.” 

“What else can I do?” 

“Whatever you want. What do 

you want?” 

“I don’t want to stay here with 

you, that’s for sure.” 

“Well, yeah, OK. I mean, you’re 

not going to be here anyway— 

with me or without me. We’re all 

packed up; I’ve already bought 

tickets back to Portland. In two 

months, you’ll be back in a bigger, 

nicer house. What’s the 

problem?” 

“I’ll still be with you.” 

“Is that so bad?” Cam had 

asked, really wanting to know. 

“Yes. I need to get on with my 

life.” 

“So, do you want me to stay 

here? You could just go back to 

Selma without me.” 

“That would be great.” 

The following morning, Cam 

had risen even earlier than usual 

and written a note saying, “I’ve 

always done everything I could to 

give you what you wanted,” and 

left it on the kitchen table with 

most of his cash and his keys to 

the Oregon house. He started for 

the door, then turned back and 

wrote two short notes telling his 

children he loved them and carried 

those notes out to his pickup. 

After a short stop at the Windorah 

post office to mail the two letters, 

he headed west on the Diamantina 

Developmental Road. 

Cam headed south from 

Cordillo Downs the following 

afternoon on a track paralleling 


Marabooka Creek’s dry bed. 

The old pickup made slow time 

dodging the many smooth rocks, 

almost as thick on the road as on 

the rest of the gibber plain, but 

that didn’t matter. Cam wasn’t 

in a hurry. The track ended or 

became indistinguishable from 

the surrounding landscape after 

about ten miles, at a couple 

of large and currently empty 

cattle yards built right in the 

dry channels of the creek—although 

in the Channel Country, 

almost everything from horizon 

to horizon became creekbed 

when the rains arrived. 

After pulling onto a slight rise 

out of the way of the primitive 

road, he switched off the motor 

and opened both front doors 

As he was about to climb out 

of the pickup, Cam saw a two-metre-long 

eastern brown snake less 

than three yards away, trying to fit 

into the shade of a rock the size of 

a volleyball. He considered picking 

up the snake and cuddling it 

but decided that that would be 

a quicker but more painful end 

to his quest. Besides, he thought, 

they have inland taipans here and 

that might be even quicker. 

Cam climbed out of the cab 

and circumambulated the pickup, 

then climbed onto the roof 

and scanned the country to the 

southwest. Once he felt satisfied 

he knew where he needed to go, 

he climbed down and made two 

cheese sandwiches. He’d left 

Windorah with twenty-two gallons 

of water in the pickup, two 

ten gallon jerry cans in the cargo 

bay and four half-gallon milk 

jugs in the back seat. As he ate 

his sandwiches, he finished off 

the last of the half-gallon jugs of 

water. Afterward, he refilled all 

four from one of the jerry cans. 

Thinking the notes he’d sent 

the previous morning inadequate, 

Cam decided to spend the 

last hour of daylight writing to 

his kids. He wrote separate but 

nearly identical letters, telling 

each of them how much he loved 

them and how proud he was of 

them, of who they had grown 

to become. He told them how 

much he appreciated their intelligence, 

their strength, their essential 

goodness, and their integrity. 

He told them he intended to 

go for a walk and recognized that 

there was a possibility—as there 

always is in the desert—he might 

not make it back. “In case I don’t,” 

he wrote, “I know you’re strong 

enough and intelligent enough to 

do just fine without me.” 

At least in this drought there 

aren’t any mosquitoes, Cam 

thought as he climbed into the 


39

ack of the pickup. Feeling uncharacteristically 

empty, he lay 

on top of his closed-cell foam 

pad and his sleeping bag. He 

thought about their little rented 

house in Windorah, then about 

their grander house near Selma. 

He thought, although he tried 

to avoid it, about his family and 

wondered what else he could 

do for his children. He was still 

wondering, as he drifted into 

sleep. 

Cam woke before any glow 

above the invisible eastern horizon 

heralded the day to come. At 

some point in the night, he had 

pulled part of his sleeping bag 

across his torso. He threw that 

off, then rolled bag and pad together 

into a tight cylinder and 

strapped that to his old Kelty 

packframe. A small carton of 

UHT milk made a tasty breakfast 

out of a bowl of muesli, and 

he followed the muesli with his 

customary handful of peanuts. 

He stashed one water jug in his 

pack and tied two others to his 

packframe; made and wrapped 

three cheese sandwiches and 

put them, an apple, two oranges, 

and a banana in his pack; stowed 

a baguette and the remaining 

cheese in two outer pockets of 

the pack; and then re-checked 

the rest of the pack’s contents. 

Although the sun had not 

yet risen into the empyrean, the 

sky had grown light enough for 

a bushwalk, albeit among the 

sparsest imaginable bush. Cam 

hung a strap over one end of the 

tailgate and wiggled it, as he gingerly 

eased enough of his head 

over near the other end to have 

a look under the pickup. Seeing 

no snakes, he stepped out, then 

pulled his pack out and set it on 

the roof. He closed the tailgate 

and the canopy and set his keys 

and the letters on the dashboard. 

Leaving all the pickup’s doors 

shut but unlocked, he began 

walking west-southwest through 

a country of stony tablelands 

ending in abrupt cliffs, red sandhills 

covered with spinifex—or 

else barren and bare—and the 

occasional bed of a small, dry 

salt lake sparkling like a sea of diamonds. 

He covered three miles 

before the sun appeared. 

Just before the sun came over 

the horizon, Cam encountered 

a dry lake bed surrounded and 

partly filled by an example of the 

chenopod plant community he 

had seen while driving: a good 

deal of saltbush but other cheropods 

as well. He enjoyed getting 

to examine these salt-tolerant 

relatives of beet and spinach 

up close. Thirty minutes later, 

as the sun shone a spotlight on 


some small mesas to the west, 

he reached Mudcarnie Creek. 

The creek contained no water, 

but Cam found a small amount 

of barely damp mud which he 

expected would be dry clay by 

evening. 

Through the morning, Cam 

walked up and down as well as 

forward—because his route ran 

perpendicular to the many channels. 

Fortunately, he rarely had 

to climb more than ten or fifteen 

feet, and often five or less, before 

descending to cross the next dry 

channel. About two hours after 

he left the traces of Mudcarnie 

Creek, the the terrain grew a little 

more steeply channelized and 

the soil became less pink and 

more orange. The vegetation became 

less dense with the change 

in terrain and soil, holding far 

fewer shrubs but more large 

ones, mostly Old Man Saltbush. 

About two hours later, Cam 

crested a ridge to see dazzling 

reflections from several dry salt 

lakes ahead and to both sides. 

What caught his attention even 

more, however, was what appeared 

to be the top of a particularly 

large saltbush a few hundred 

yards to his left. 

Craving more shade than his 

hat provided, he turned that way 

and walked a quarter of a mile 

south. Watching carefully and 

stepping heavily, he approached 

the saltbush, which stood at least 

eight feet tall. A brown snake 

moved away and disappeared 

behind some smaller shrubs. 

Lucky, Cam thought, A taipan 

might not’ve given up its shady spot. 

He sat under the saltbush 

and ate his sandwiches while 

addressing grateful thoughts to 

the big shrub. Eager to explore 

the salt pans, he finished the first 

water jug and tied it back onto 

the packframe before heading 

due west. He reached the first 

crystalline lakebed in half an 

hour and spent fifteen minutes 

looking at its almost uniform 

surface. Heading due west again, 

he pondered the realization that 

the brown snake he’d dislodged 

from under the saltbush was the 

only animal he’d seen all day. 

Aware he was walking over 

the traditional land of the Yandruwandha 

people, Cam nevertheless 

hadn’t expected to see 

any human beings and so, felt no 

surprise on that score. The total 

absence of animals, on the other 

hand, shocked and saddened 

him. He knew the chenopod 

shrublands usually supported 

kangaroos and planigales and 


41

placental mammals—dingo, 

long-haired rat, or native plague 

rat, Forrest’s mouse—and maybe 

other furry creatures; plus more 

than two hundred species of 

birds; but he hadn’t seen a single 

living warmblooded animal. 

Cam also knew the changing climate 

made survival here more 

difficult, and maybe impossible, 

for many former residents. 

Walking among spindly and 

sparse spinifex and saltbush from 

one dazzling salt pan toward another, 

bigger one, Cam made a 

slight detour to climb the highest 

nearby interchannel ridge, 

less than thirty feet at its highest 

point. From that vantage point, 

though, he could see a score of 

sparkling lakebeds—like the bed 

of the Mediterranean five million 

years ago, he thought. A twenty 

minute walk delivered Cam 

to the second salt flat. Twice the 

size of the first one, this second 

dry salt lake seemed otherwise 

identical and held his interest for 

only another five or six minutes. 

Cam then headed southwest 

toward Sturt’s Ponds, walking 

among sandhill spurge with 

spinifex and saltbush even more 

sparse and spindly. By the time 

he descended the bluff and dune 

system and crossed the rutted 

track, he could see the clay pan 

that would usually be the bottom 

of the Ponds. A reliable water 

source in most years, Sturt’s 

Ponds held no puddles and no 

mud, although Cam thought the 

clay felt a little damp in a couple 

of spots. If he’d brought a shovel, 

he could probably have dug 

down and found water to refill 

his empty jug. 

He spent half an hour exploring 

the Ponds and another 

hour-and-a-half walking almost 

due west. He walked across the 

southern part of Lake Marradibbadibba’s 

dry bed without realizing 

what it was and arrived on 

what should have been the shore 

of Lake Goyder— or Goolangirie, 

as the ancient custodians called 

it. Even more than Sturt’s Ponds, 

the clay of Goolangirie’s lakebed 

was dry and deeply fissured. 

Studying the vegetation, and 

the dead fish and invertebrates, 

gave Cam a reasonable idea 

of the level Lake Goyder had 

reached before the drought. The 

Lake must have been dry for 

quite awhile, though, because the 

dead fish no longer gave off any 

smell. He explored the lakebed 

for half an hour and then began 

looking for a place to camp. He 

felt pleased to see what appeared 

to be a spinney of large saltbush 

shrubs and less pleased when he 


walked to them and found most 

of them were Bassia, with their 

horrible prickly burrs. 

A short exploration found two 

fairly large Old Man Saltbush 

shrubs with no Bassia between 

them. Thanking the shrubs for 

their presence, Cam removed 

his pack and made a sandwich. 

While he ate, he finished the 

second water jug. Afterward, he 

removed his bedroll from the 

packframe and tied the pack as 

high as he could in the saltbush. 

Tired from a serious day’s walk, 

he fell asleep early while naming 

the few constellations he knew. 

Again, Cam woke early in 

pre-dawn darkness. He lay motionless, 

consciously keeping his 

breathing silent, and listened. 

The silence sounded absolute, 

unworldly. After what seemed 

an hour and was probably at 

least fifteen minutes, he heard a 

very faint scuttling, probably a 

Long-tailed planigale seizing an 

arthropod meal. Reassured, Cam 

lay for most of another hour— 

and heard two more planigale or 

rodent sounds, both some considerable 

distance away—before 

he saw the first faint hint of light 

on the eastern horizon. 

By sitting straight up, he could 

reach the side pockets on his 

pack, so he retrieved the bread 

and the cheese and made a sandwich 

and ate it in the dark. He 

washed it down with an abstemious 

drink from the third jug 

and pulled on a clean pair of 

underwear and his shorts and 

T-shirt. He rolled and attached 

his bedroll, hoisted his pack onto 

his back, tightened the waistband, 

and again set out walking 

in the half light of early dawn. 

Proceeding very slightly east of 

due south and walking steadily, 

even with climbing Waltatella 

Hill and then stopping to reconnoiter 

Lake Toontoowaranie’s 

dry bed, he reached what would 

have been Lake Coongie by 

noon. Like her neighbors, Coongie 

lay dry, her only waves the 

fissures in her clay bed. 

Both more frequently and 

more recently watered, the margins 

of Lake Coongie supported 

a far denser and more extensive 

boscage than Lake Goyder, even 

including several coolabah and 

river red gum. Not surprisingly, 

that environment also supported 

more animal life. Cam spotted 

a letter-winged kite and saw 

what he thought was probably a 

blackbreasted buzzard in the distance. 

He didn’t see any freckled 

duck or bush thick-knee—the 

Australian term for curlews— 

although he knew both lived 

here when the lakes held water. 


43

Thinking back to his one 

earlier visit here—a trip via 

Innamincka on a visit with his 

brother twenty years ago—he 

remembered the lakes full of 

sweet water and birds. There 

must have been ten thousand of 

‘em, he thought, maybe more. 

He remembered pelicans and 

others he’d recognized, such as 

herons, egrets, ibis, spoonbills, 

cormorants, kingfishers, black 

swans, terns, and gulls. Other 

birds he’d had to look up later: 

black-winged stilts, hoaryheaded 

grebes, teals, pink-eared ducks, 

maned-ducks, Pacific black 

ducks, coots, red-necked avocets, 

swamp hens, cuckoo-shrikes, 

and hardheads. He remember 

feeling amazed by the number 

and variety of birds, all of them 

attracted by abundant fresh water—less 

ephemeral than the 

salt lakes beyond the dunes to 

the north and less salty than the 

Murray River—and the aquatic 

life the water supported. 

Thinking of that earlier visit 

reminded Cam of a building on 

the northwest side of the lake, 

and he decided to go check it out. 

On the visit with his brother, they 

spent two hours walking around 

the five-kilometre by three-kilometre 

lake’s perimeter to get from 

one side to the other. This time, 

the drought saved him the trouble, 

and Cam walked—turning 

frequently to check out the vista 

in each direction and taking the 

occasional photograph—right 

across Coongie’s dry bed in less 

than an hour. When he reached 

the other side, he felt annoyed to 

find fresh 4WD tracks and signs 

of tents recently pitched under 

the coolabahs. 

Cam had assumed nobody 

else would visit the lakes with 

the water dried up and no bird 

life. Studying the ground, he 

concluded at least three big 

SUVs had been there and at least 

three tents had been pitched in 

recent days. Cam had walked 

from Cordillo Downs not knowing 

what he wanted to do. He 

had just felt a need to walk, and 

Sturt’s Stony Desert sort of fit 

the mood of his heart. Those 

who knew Cam thought of him 

as a friendly, social person, 

but socializing with a bunch 

of campers in big SUVs did not 

constitute part of his plans—not 

that he actually had any plans. 

Now that he was here at Lake 

Coongie and a public campground, 

he needed to make some. 

He might go back over the dunes 

north of Lake Goyder and walk 

through Sturt’s Stony Desert 

as far as he could, maybe 

head west to see if he could 

make it to the Birdsville Track. 


He could stay here at Coongie 

and simply leave, assuming he 

was still able, if anyone arrived. 

He could walk back to the big 

Old Man Saltbush, where he’d 

dislodged the brown snake— 

he’d be unlikely to encounter 

anyone there. Or he could try 

to make it back to his pickup. If 

he rested in shade through two 

afternoons and walked only in 

the early mornings, he might be 

able to get that far on less than 

one jug of water—but why? 

Cam decided to stay put. He 

tied his pack as high in a coolabah 

as he comfortably could 

from the ground, became even 

more abstemious in his use of 

water, and spent most of the 

daylight exploring the area and 

watching the minimal wildlife. 

Returning to his pack, he retrieved 

his bedroll and rolled it 

out under the tree. Cam watched 

the last sunlight fade from the 

sky, then drifted off to sleep. 

Rationing his remaining water 

left Cam uncomfortably thirsty, 

but he had expected that and 

tolerated it reasonably well. He 

knew of ways he might be able 

to obtain more water but didn’t 

think he wanted to. For example, 

with a little searching and a little 

more digging, he could probably 

find a few water-holding frogs 

and squeeze the water out of 

them. If he did that, though, the 

frogs would surely not survive to 

the next wet season—and at this 

point Cam didn’t feel sure his life 

was worth as much as a frog’s. 

A chance to observe a Giles’s 

planigale the next morning rewarded 

his decision. The tiny 

creature emerged from a deep 

fissure in the clay of the lakebed, 

still groggy from its overnight 

‘mini-hibernation’. Fortunately 

for the planigale, it had already 

recovered and moved on by the 

time the kite returned. 


45

Michael Quintana 

A.M. 

last night 

I wondered what it was like not to breathe— 

to feel my lungs shrivel up 

like a used balloon. 

last night 

I wondered if I’d ever lived, 

while you laid your head on me 

and sighed. 



The Lot 

Remember when you asked about the fire? 

About the things I saw seeped in smoke 

and the things I knew 

weren’t there? 

About the wind and the way it blew 

spraying fire so loud, 

I told you I thought about July 

and red raw summer heat— 

times when I scraped my knees 

and licked them, tasting the tangy blare 

of alkaline batteries. 

Away, it went for me. 

And sometimes 

I pass by everything, 

or what I think is everything, 

and let myself imagine 

parts of me invested in a bird’s nest, 

some flake like old skin 

housed between twigs. 


47


Cords 

Yesterday, it sat on the tip of my tongue 

with the texture of fuzz, 

the underbelly of a thin-skinned leaf. 

I first heard it 

when I touched my mother’s shoulder. 

In the space between seconds— 

in the space no longer between us— 

I felt her love story, completely. 


Jeffrey Alfier 

Navesink River Sunday 

Daybreak, and the thick scent of the soundless river. 

In slow heavy air, men cast lines and glare outward, 

holding to the silence between them. 

Crows drift through elms fading to autumn. 

From the rail bridge, a train warns 

an unseen crossroad. But nothing here alters. 

At home, my aged father, who’d be at ease 

among these fishermen, struggles with sleep 

after I lifted him from a midnight fall — 

his frame as light as a ghost ship. 

And me, this open water, the footpath 

at my back inclining toward town, 

light bending through morning windows 

that traps someone’s eyes in the sudden radiance. 


49


Missoula Northside 

for Carly Flint 

It’s how edges of the city fall to darkness, love: 

light leaking onto foothills beyond the river, 

blinds coming down in high windows. 

The homeless loiter like remaindered men. A woman 

of indeterminate age begs by a secondhand store. 

Boxcars shift like hawsers groaning in a storm. 

The Northern Pacific station is a bar now. 

I enter through a trace of smoke hanging 

in the doorway’s broken light. 

Someone in a corner, recovering from a bender, 

guzzles bitter, burning coffee. 

The barmaid slides me a bourbon and a brittle smile. 

Dismissing her ring, I want so much to say a word 

to the strawberry-blonde across the vacant stool between us. 

The scent of her could light an empty room. 

Her unflinching stare is straight ahead, lips pursed 

like a rigid scar. I ponder the blind luck 

that brought me this far, the odds-on bet I’ll fail. 

Her cell lights up, and after listening without speaking, 

she gathers herself and leaves. My eyes follow her 

through the window behind the barmaid. 

She halts for seconds under a streetlight, 

as if a step further would drop her, by degrees, 

into the dark aura of the new moon. 



American Woman 

in Warsaw 

Again, too long at the Danube Bar, 

she lets wine hurry her off 

into the summer night’s drowsy air. 

Over the Old Town cobblestones 

she passes a young father holding 

his daughter’s hand as the girl leans 

to pick a flower the wind shook 

from a stranger’s bouquet. 

* 

Tomorrow, the flight home. 

She’ll wake to a hotel radio 

in this city whose language 

she doesn’t know, leave the room 

to check out. Leave the radio 

singing to its foreign self, 

a tune in her own country she’ll hum 

one night walking home in the dark. 


51

Sarah Webb 

Joining the Revolution 

I lived it, and I didn’t know it. 

I wore the shirtwaists and the bobby socks 

and worried being smart ruined my chances with the boys. 

I went into teaching instead of science 

because that’s what women do. 

It was everywhere, and I didn’t see it. 

I kept the house for my husband—wasn’t that my job? 

What a surprise! I was on the credit card now. 

Hadn’t I been before? Did I need to be? 

And if he slept around, that’s what some men do. 

Something wasn’t right, something more 

than high heels and bras. No, I couldn’t call myself a feminist, 

but it wasn’t fair making less for the same work, 

coming home tired and my husband refusing to help. 

And what woman was he on now, his tenth? 

Don’t get any ideas, he said, it doesn’t work that way for women. 

But I knew something else, something underneath 

and rising as I took to wearing jeans and writing in my journal. 

I knew maybe it did work that way for women. 

Maybe we wanted adventure too and money 

enough to live on, and our opinions listened to, 

not to have to placate and always be afraid. 

And my anger grew. 


So it was revolution after all, though I never said 

rights, never said sister or liberation. 

It was my own revolution, 

of raising my voice, of taking lovers, 

of emergency room visits and holding fast, 

of finally leaving. 

Now, after the degree I held back from, 

after the career, after raising my girl alone, I look 

and I say, huh! it was everywhere and I didn’t see it. 

It was my life. And I didn't know it. 


53

Sarah Webb 

At the Rally to Restore 

Sanity and/or Fear 

It's an odd rally, one to celebrate listening to each other, 

taking ourselves with a grain of salt. 

A simulcast plays John Stewart through the loudspeaker, 

pretending to be irate with his friend, Stephen Colbert. 

We stroll the grounds of the state capital, reading hand-made signs: 

Less Bark, More Wag! I'm Calmer Than You Are. 

A cluster of boys shout a nonsense slogan: More Fiber, Less Fear! 

People have dressed as Abe Lincoln, Captain America, themselves. 

My friend pulls on my arm. She wants to hug Lady Liberty, 

who has raised a torch in a sunny space between the oaks. 

Liberty’s braid of hair and beads and twine reaches to the ground. 

A black woman, small and compact, she stands apart 

from the placards and the restless movement of the crowd. 

Under her crown of carved sun rays, she smiles. 

She cannot see the screen with the politicians and comedians 

but looks out at the morning. 

A swell of sound distracts us, and we clap and cheer. 

When we turn back, we cannot reach her 

through the gestures of a woman who has approached her. 

Liberty nods her head to the woman’s talk, 

not the mime I’d thought or a living statue 

but a real person who has woven crystals into her braid, 

crystals and flags and a tiny doll’s head. 

As we walk on toward our car, I look back at her. 

She stands erect in her artist’s freedom, 

the quiet center of the day. 


Karen Cline-Tardiff 

Allison 

Allison refused to 

hang her diploma 

on the wall. She 

worked full-time but 

had taken every class she could 

manage. In between work, 

caring for her family, and sleep, 

she finished her bachelor’s 

degree in three years. When the 

piece of paper came in the mail, 

Allison opened it in the car. She 

looked at it laying there on her 

lap; the gold foil insignia, her 

name in calligraphy. She put 

it back in the flat box, took it 

in the house and shoved it in a 

drawer. It was weeks before her 

husband thought to ask about 

the missing diploma. 

Her supervisor at work 

wanted to host a little congratulatory 

luncheon for Allison 

once he found out she completed 

her studies. She dissuaded 

him and took the pay raise with 

no fanfare. The months ticked 

by and Allison didn’t feel any 

smarter or more achieved than 

her colleagues. She quietly 

started taking online courses. 

She’d sneak in an essay on her 

lunch break, hide her homework 

in piles of laundry or 

in her briefcase. Not because 

her husband would recognize 

New Approaches to Analytical 

Grammar, she just didn’t want 

the questions. 

Two years of 10-page reports 

and 20-page financial 

aid packets culminated in a 

master’s degree. Her guidance 

counselor told her she could 

come walk the stage and receive 

her diploma on a Friday. 

She checked the flights for 

graduation weekend. She had 

an extra day of PTO she hadn’t 

used. She’d been to Phoenix 

for work before, her husband 

wouldn’t even ask about it. 

Suitcase packed in the 

Corolla, she backed out of the 

driveway on Wednesday. He’d 

said his goodbyes from the 

couch. The children would 

stay with his mother while 

he was at work. The weather 

was supposed to be clear all 

week. A small hum started in 

her throat and she realized 

she was actually humming a 

tune, a song she heard on the 

Muzak at work. An unfamiliar 

smile crept across her face. 


55

She merged onto the interstate 

and almost laughed with happiness 

when she saw the green 

sign proclaiming “Houston 52.” 

Less than an hour to Hobby 

airport. 

The car began to rattle. Softly 

at first, but quickly turning 

into a deafening sound. The 

wheel started to shake under 

her hands. She pulled onto the 

shoulder just as smoke began to 

pour out from under the hood 

of her car. She turned the key 

off, reached for her purse in the 

passenger seat, and pulled out 

her phone. Allison called her 

husband. 

“Why are you crying? It’s just 

a conference.” 

She put the phone back in 

her purse, wiped her eyes and 

made sure her mascara wasn’t 

smeared. As the tow truck 

arrived, Allison waited for her 

husband to come take her home. 


Andrena Zawinski 

Plumes 

Arty was still 

dressed in 

checkered 

work pants 

and a stained 

chef jacket, hairnet hugging 

his red shock of hair, 

as he let the last bus of the 

night pass him by, his only 

way back to East Liberty and 

the community housing he 

called Heartbreak Hotel. He 

sat restless inside the transit 

shelter, flicking a Zippo 

lighter open and closed. He 

sat peeved, tapping his feet in 

a puddle left behind by the 

sudden cloudburst, common 

to Pittsburgh summers, one 

that just as swiftly dissipated 

into a muggy still. 

It had been an especially 

busy and humid standing-room-only 

night at 

Plumes with the B’ B’ K’ 

Roche band in from Berkeley. 

The small downstairs kitchen 

was in a panic, with popular 

vegetarian food orders backed 

up. The bartender was fuming 

at the sprawling bar upstairs, 

unable to make the Cali-Cosmo 

Cooler special because 

the Cointreau disappeared. 

Then there was the dispirited 

crowd jamming up the parking 

lot and the street, having 

been turned away at the door 

because of fire marshal occupancy 

regulations. 

Diana—a K. D. Lang 

look-alike from her practical 

haircut to cutoff cowgirl 

boots—guarded the entrance, 

legs spread wide under a prairie 

skirt, arms folded firmly 

across her purple Plumes 

tee. The blocked hangers-on 

scanned performer posters on 

the wall—from the local Gerties 

Improv and Poetry group 

to comedian Kate Clinton; 

from singer-songwriter Chris 

Williamson to performance 

ensemble Sweet Honey in the 

Rock—while Diana tried to 

amuse them by belting out an 

occasional operatic aria. 

As the emcee announced 

the band’s entrance to the 

stage, Diana’s attention was 

on an ex-server, recently fired 

from Plumes for slipping out 

during her shift to down Boilermakers 

with local mill hunks 

at Bubba’s Bar across the street. 


57

She called her over, leaned 

in and whispered in her ear: 

“The kitchen side door is 

open.” 

Arty, the only man working 

at the cabaret style 

restaurant showcasing women’s 

talent, was the newest 

employee for the Plumes 

Cultural Feminist Women’s 

Collective, who they took on 

pronto to ward off any possibility 

of a sex discrimination 

suit, once he ended his 

interview with an accusatory 

“You won’t hire me because 

I’m a man.” 

and stared so intently into 

the cooktop flames. 

After the kitchen was 

cleaned up and shut down 

for the night, someone left 

the walk-in freezer door 

ajar—tri-tips defrosting in 

a muck of spumoni melting 

on the floor. Someone left 

the kitchen side door unbolted—the 

register’s startup 

cash stolen, top shelf liquors 

looted. Someone deposited 

a hairnet and a lighter in the 

emptied tip jar. 

They fired him just as 

quickly as they had hired 

him—for letting the strawberry 

banana flambé burn as 

he guzzled brandy straight 

from the bottle. This, as he 

quietly fumed, having overheard 

waitstaff grumbling 

they thought he was the 

one pinching money from 

their shared tip jar stashed 

on the shelf in reach just 

outside the kitchen. This, 

after eavesdropping on their 

continued rumor mongering 

that he might be the notorious 

South Side Arsonist, as 

they mused about how he 

always toyed with his lighter 


Don Mathis 

The Dominant One 

Doormat lies on floor. 

Foot walks on it, 

dirtying Doormat’s face 

with shoe mud. 

Doormat takes it, 

supports Foot. 

Foot is dependent 

on Doormat’s support, 

becomes used to 

Doormat always there. 

Until one day, 

Doormat turns over 

a new life. 

The footfalls arrive 

but Foot falls, 

heels over head, 

hard, hitting floor. 

Doormat is gone – 

and is blamed 

for Foot’s downfall. 

Who is the dominant one? 


59

Penny Jackson 

Patricia 

Fat Pat, they called her. 

Blubber Babe, 

Chubby Galore, 

and Elephant Girl. 

She worked behind the counter 

at the high school cafeteria, 

wearing a bright pink smock 

the color of Pepto-Bismol 

with a white cap on her head 

that looked like a lost napkin. 

He never told anyone that she 

was his step-sister, 

who never lost the weight 

after she gave birth 

eleven months ago 

at the age of sixteen. 

Dishing out mashed potatoes 

and corned beef the color of 

rusted copper 

to ravenous students 

was the only job that 

gave her flexibility 

to watch the baby, 

as his mother worked the factory 

afternoon shifts. 

“How can I eat after looking at that?” 

his best friend asked, 

sticking a finger down his throat 

and making fake puking sounds 

after Patty poured 

extra gravy over his turkey as requested. 

“God, do you think she even knows what 

a salad bar means!” his girlfriend exclaimed 


as they squeezed in with the coolest kids 

at the back table. 

He could never look at her, 

at school or in their living room. 

No one was ever invited to his new home. 

“We’re in the middle of renovation,” he told friends. 

Sometimes at dinner Patty would catch his eye, 

nod her head 

as if to say 

“it’s okay.” 

He would climb up the stairs 

to his bedroom, 

and bury his head in his pillow, 

hot with shame. 

Soon he went to college, 

didn’t come home at all 

until his mother’s funeral. 

He didn’t recognize Patty. 

Even thought she was a distant cousin. 

So skinny and pale, 

as if she had shared his mother’s cancer. 

“Hello,” she said, standing against the wall 

in a shiny black dress that clung like 

Saran Wrap, 

arms and legs like matchsticks 

he could imagine so easily breaking. 

“I don’t blame you for anything, Dave,” 

she told him 

as the water glass trembled in his hand. 

“I probably would have done the same. 

But look at me now.” 

Yet when he looked, 

he could only see the missing folds of 

skin, 

her fleshy arms that once held her baby girl, 

the way her cheeks swelled 


61

as if about to blow out 

a candle. 

“It’s okay, Dave,” Patty said again. 

“And please call me Patricia.” 

He understood what it must take for 

her to lose all that weight. 

And now with his mother gone, 

all that, what the loss must have cost her. 

Patty was now Patricia 

But Dave was still Dave, 

again ashamed 

as if 

she was now scooping out mountains of 

potatoes, 

as the fluorescent lights 

of the high school cafeteria 

blinded his eyes. 


Penny Jackson 

A Hole in Her Head 

A hole in her head 

is how my grandmother explained it 

when she was still 

cognizant. 

She clasped her 

hands around her thinning 

grey hair 

as if holding on 

could stop 

the leakage. 

Two months later 

she is lost in her own bedroom 

walking in circles trying 

to find a shopping cart 

in the market 

although we don’t know 

if it’s the market across the street 

or a market in Dresden 

thousands of miles away 

in a time that could be 

thousands of days gone. 

A week, she will 

hide 

her husband’s wallet, 

car keys, 

passport, 

convinced that she is being 

held hostage. 

When the policeman arrives 

after her frantic call, 

no one can convince her that 


63

her husband, who 

stands by their framed wedding photograph 

clutching a cane, 

is not a feared Nazi from her youth, 

waiting to throw her into the oven. 

Finally, at the hospital, 

she is completely erased. 

Her eyes glazed 

as stale candy, 

cheeks red and raw, 

as if constantly rubbed 

by a coarse washcloth. 

The hole in the head seems like 

a crater now. 

The power of speech, 

German, English, Yiddish 

exorcised. 

Her fingers now curled in 

in clenched fists 

beat at her chest, 

trying to fight 

the black wings 

of oblivion. 

I expect her hair to fall out, 

exposing the cavity, 

yet miraculously it grows. 

Thick and long. 

Tangled in the nurse’s comb. 

Tangled in her fingers. 

Even her face seems smoother 

after the Lithium. 

Age now taunting my beloved 

Nana 

with the promise of 

youth. 


Penny Jackson 

The Women of 

the Frick Museum 

The grand dames 

of the Frick Museum 

stare with such condescension 

that you fight the urge to check 

the sole of your shoes. 

We are just commoners 

blocking their way to their plumed horses 

and plush curtained carriages. 

There is Lady Peel 

clutching her ermine 

with wrists heavy with gold, 

eyes as glittering as dark sapphires 

daring Thomas Lawrence to come closer. 

Madame Baptiste, 

tendrils of hair like flowering vines, 

lips pursed either 

to kiss Jean Baptiste-Greuze 

or spit on him. 

Lady Sarah Innes 

with a black velvet 

cat collar 

even though 

she is not Gainsborough’s 

or anyone’s pet. 

Lady Meux's 

lovely hooded eyes so 

serpent-like 

that you wonder if 

Whistler provoked her, 

would her tongue be forked? 


65

A group of chattering children 

are suddenly silenced 

by the bent forefinger 

on the perfect chin 

on the perfect face 

of the icy blue 

Countess d’Haussonville. 

Who judges us all 

with one upraised eyebrow. 

Since I am old myself 

I think 

what happened to these 

women 

as they aged? 

Did the satin luster 

of their complexions 

grow dusty or cracked? 

Regal cheekbones sinking 

like craters? 

Moist lips now cracked and pale 

as the glint of their eyes 

dimmed like a flame extinguished. 

Would their husbands find younger replacements 

like Browning’s narrator in The Last Duchess? 

Or like the lilacs in my winter garden 

would they simply wither away, 

bulbs drooping, 

leaves shedding, 

petals like pieces of used tissue. 

No. 

Not these women. 

Their fiery eyes reveal 

an unconquerable strength. 

They would 

slap their husband’s silly faces 


slash at smoother complexions, 

stomp with their heeled boots 

for recognition. 

Never 

would they simply vanish. 

Be invisible. 

The artists who painted their portraits 

Understood their immortality. 

If these women could slide 

from their canvases, 

they would drink champagne 

the color of pale gold. 

And ignore us all 

because we lack a brush 

and a canvas. 


67

William Mainous II 

A Ghost at Nana’s 

Late one evening while Texas heat still blazing 

I sit at nana’s devouring a deviled ham sandwich 

and find leaning against the fridge a suffragette. 

All in Edwardian fashion smoking a cigarette 

proudly wearing her “Votes for Women” sash, 

the air a pleasing scent perfume a lovely shea 

butter. Thus, I arise and introduce myself as. . . 

she interrupts saying I’m boring. I think she’s 

rude since, I didn’t offer her a bite. I ask her 

to leave. From her handbag she unpacks 

a Schofield 1875 laughs, very calmly says, 

“Like hell I’ll leave. Put down that sandwich!” 

She proceeds by asking if I read and what I read 

“I am not a fan of reading.” She instructs me 

to go to the shelf in the living room and second 

shelf from the bottom is a copy of Adrienne Rich’s 

Diving into the Wreck. And if I would please 

bring the book hither. But I have no intention 

of rummaging through an old lady’s things 

and further I have mentioned I don’t read 

She snaps at me calling me feeble minded. 

Evidently to her it’s not reading it is revolution. 

Suprisingly, real chill convo after that insanity 

turns out we’re two Pisces who dig botany. 


William Mainous II 

Requiem for a friend 

A stretch of beach overlooking Laguna Madre 

they stand alone watching untamed waves. 

Waves caress the morbid shore, peacefully 

luminous in the moon light and welcoming. 

Off in tranquil nearing seagulls pass as the flock 

continues patrolling the glistening shore. 

Their wings give rhythm. The other side of the 

gentle waves christen the feet in the sand. 

On the other side of the lagoon thrives 

South Padre Island an eternal city. 

A vain city of endless revolts of light and dark 

but neither really wins they only revolve 

and coexist. The voice of the lagoon is a ceaseless 

sedative. Emerald waves invite the soul 

to roam forever. For whatever comes she will 

never belong to anyone other than herself. 

Only a memoir is left of a lost noun, 

a verb surviving in a dead language. 


69

Jerry Craven | Terry Dalrymple | Andrew Geyer 

Magic Realism 

in Graphic Art 

a preview of 

Magic, Mystery, and Madness 


I like to mix images inspired by beautiful tiny spots with 

beauty on grand scales, such as in many Hubble photographs of 

planets, stars, galaxies. My art also often juxtaposes elements in 

ways that defy distance and time. So it seems appropriate to borrow 

the term magic realism from fiction writers and apply it to much of 

my graphic art. 

Years ago one of my art teachers declared that anyone can 

do pretty art, that what she wanted from her students was art that 

had something to say, even if that 'something' made the art harsh, 

difficult, and ugly. I do some pushing back on that idea. Why not 

seek beauty while still creating art that speaks of difficult issues? 

And why not strive for beauty for its own sake? Robert Browning 

gave the following lines to the painter Fra Lippo Lippi: 

If you get simple beauty and nought else, 

You get about the best thing God invents: 

That's somewhat 

I agree, and I want to make my art attractive enough that 

people would want to hang it in their homes, as well as have it be 

artwork suggesting ideas that they can analyze, if they want. 

Currently Andrew Geyer, Terry Dalrymple and I are 

writing Magic, Mystery, and Madness, a book of ekphrastic stories 

and poetry that connects our writing with various pieces of my 

graphic magic realism. We decided in setting up the project that 

the writing might or might not include elements of literary magic 

realism. The ekphrastic stories and poems in this issue of Windward 

Review will be a part of our upcoming book. -Jerry Craven 


71

Jerry Craven 

Malachite Cross and Seven Sisters 


Jerry Craven 

This Strange Malachite Art 

A malachite cross here surfing with grace 

and bathed in a star’s yellow light 

is stretching out time and purpling space 

in defining the shape of a night. 

This painting with those Seven Sisters invite 

me to a childhood sky close to Rio 

el Tigre and closer to our El Tigrito 

backyard water tower. Carl’s 

Seven Sisters burned warm in the night, 

standing together, Carl said, like the dipper 

now in this strange malachite art. 

As he spoke of planets and the Pleiades, 

my finger traced his words through those 

sizzling stars until finding made the Sisters 

mine to hold forever in my racing heart. 

Light-years from that childhood, I hear Carl, 

a man wise from Time and shaking slow 

to conjure words of mourning for one sister, 

then telling a plan to write another book. 

My promise to help draws a dark look 

from the lady who knows him best. Your brother, 

she tells me aside, cannot hold a pen. 

Those fingers have forgotten all keyboards, 

and the hospice nurse helps him endure his pain. 

He has already written his last book. 

But I know a plan can help shape the night 

like the malachite cross coloring space, defining 

time and truth for all we’ve seen in our light. 


73

Jerry Craven 


Clarissa Green

Terry Dalrymple 

Clarissa's Spirit 

Four days after she drowned 

herself, Clarissa Hovington stood at 

the worn wooden table in their kitchen, 

hands behind her back, glaring 

at her father. The man sat passed out 

at the other side of the table, his face 

pressed awkwardly against its surface. 

He reeked of alcohol. 

"Father," Clarissa said. He did not 

move. She raised her voice. "Father," 

she said in an uncharacteristically 

angry, stern voice. He groaned and 

rolled his head to the side, but didn't 

rouse. She swung and slapped an 

open palm hard against his ear. 

He groaned again, raised his 

head, and squinted at her with 

bleary eyes. "Clarissa? Where have 

you been?" 

"I've a gift for you, Father." Her 

voice sounded flat, monotone. 

"A gift?" He placed his palms on 

the table top and pushed up onto his 

feet. He swayed unsteadily. "You've 

always been such a good, sweet girl." 

Clarissa swung her arms from behind 

her back, a butcher knife in her 

right hand. She clutched that right 

hand with her left, lunged across the 

table, and jabbed the blade into his 

groin. 

The next morning, neighbors 

found him hanging from an oak 

limb in his front yard, the knife still 

lodged where Clarissa had aimed it. 

* * * * * 

Throughout Clarissa's short life, 

everyone who knew her—and many 

who saw her only briefly and from 

afar—found her exceedingly beautiful. 

Her large emerald eyes nestled 

in a lovely face of blemish-free ivory 

complexion, framed by thick, wavy 

red hair. Other girls were jealous, 

and boys were desirous, especially 

when Clarissa reached puberty early 

and her breasts flowered. Even 

so, in all situations Clarissa behaved 

prudently, carefully, patiently. She 

was kind and humorous but shy, reserved, 

and unassuming. 

* * * * * 

Thomas Covington, Clarissa’s 

older brother, sat in a tavern one 

hundred and twenty miles from 

where his father died, oblivious of 

his old man’s fate. Earlier that same 

day, he had received a letter from the 

now dead man saying only that Cla- 


75

issa had disappeared. Yet there she 

was, smiling at him from the tavern 

door. She beckoned to him, and he 

arose and crossed the room. 

“Clarissa,” he said, “I’d heard 

you disappeared.” 

“I have something for you, 

Thomas.” 

“For me? What is it?” 

“Not here. It’s very personal. 

Come outside with me.” 

Expecting something he didn’t 

deserve but had taken by force three 

years before, he followed her into 

the dark night. 

In the early morning before the 

sun rose, a bum discovered him lying 

castrated in an alley but still 

breathing. 

* * * * * 

Her mother died of pneumonia 

before Clarissa turned one. Her father 

first visited her bedroom shortly 

before she turned ten. Her older 

brother molested her not long after 

her twelfth birthday. A very handsome 

boy from school and the only 

boy Clarissa ever willingly allowed 

to have her laughed when she said 

she loved him. "Love!" he scoffed. 

"This don't got nothing to do with 

love." He never spoke to her again. 

And so her life continued, boys 

taking advantage of her, always 

against her will, and girls playing 

dirty tricks on her and calling her by 

numerous demeaning and disgusting 

names, until one dark evening 

when she walked to a nearby placid 

lake and drowned herself. 

* * * * * 

Jimmy Druitt, the exceedingly 

handsome young man who had 

scoffed at Clarissa’s admission of love, 

whistled as he walked home from an 

illicit meeting with his lovely, young 

school teacher. He took a shortcut 

through the woods, feeling proud 

and happy until Clarissa stepped 

from behind a tree ahead of him. 

“Hi, Jimmy.” She grinned at him, 

but the grin was not a happy one. 

The boy gasped. “You can’t be 

here,” he stammered. “You’re missing.” 

Clarissa stepped toward him. 

“I guess you found me.” Jimmy 

stepped back. “Oh, Jimmy, don’t 

back away. I have a surprise.” She 

unbuttoned the top two buttons on 

her dress. “Do you want your surprise?” 

Later, when Jimmy stumbled 

through the door of his home, his 

bloody face was disfigured by dozens 

of deep slices, cuts, and punctures, 

and his tongue was missing. 

* * * * * 


At midnight on January 9, 

her fifteenth birthday, Clarissa 

drowned herself in the local lake. 

But her angry, bitter spirit wanted 

revenge for all the wrongs she had 

suffered and so dragged her corpse 

from the dark water and resurrected 

her. As she felt life creeping back 

into her flesh, Clarissa cried out, 

“No, no, I don’t want life. I just want 

peace.” But her spirit was adamant 

and strong. 

* * * * * 

Vicious harm came to twelve 

more boys or men and seven girls. 

No evidence existed to identify the 

perpetrator. Clarissa was still assumed 

missing, for no one had seen 

her except her victims just before 

their misfortune. 

Beginning with her visit to her 

father, Clarissa had resisted, and 

her resistance became increasingly 

vehement with each subsequent 

visit. Still, she could not overcome 

the demands of her spirit. But after 

she had attacked the last of those 

who had been most hateful and 

cruel to her in life, she said she was 

done. Her spirit said no. There were 

still many who would have abused 

her had they gotten the chance. 

They, too, were evil. 

“Look at what I’ve done,” Clarissa 

shouted aloud. “I’m evil.” 

Her spirit responded that justified 

revenge was not evil. 

“I don’t want revenge,” Clarissa 

said. “I want peace.” 

“You’re immortal. You’ll never 

have peace.” 

“I don’t want to be immortal.” 

“Too late.” 

“I will not seek more revenge,” 

Clarissa yelled. 

* * * * * 

Although other people in the 

area were occasionally victims of 

crime, evidence was always found 

and the culprit was caught. As far 

as anyone knew, Clarissa had simply 

disappeared many years before. 

Once every year or so, someone 

strolling by the lake at night claimed 

to have seen her out in the water or 

sitting on the shore and weeping. 

Once, a known drunkard swore he 

had seen her in the water, going under 

time and time again. Every time 

her head bobbed above the surface, 

he said, she screamed into the night, 

“Please, please, please.” But everyone 

dismissed the old drunk’s tale 

as a whisky-besotted hallucination. 


77

Jerry Craven 


Curadora Angel

Jerry Craven 

Rosita’s Instructions to the Painter 

Dip brushes in velvet orchids to paint the queen 

in dewy odors of sapote beside the sheen 

of labios calentes infusing passion in serene 

blessings for our river jungles’ dying green. 

Take angel colors from our ride on Rio Churun, 

Rosita said, paint her face with parrot pink 

and red papaya moist on her cheek, 

with azul like Sam’s good eye that might 

have found its blue in a distant Texas sky. 

Make her arms green-and-red-smeared paint 

streaked into her embrace, but paint divine arms 

unlike ours, then sprinkle her face with light, 

with ruby and citrine crystals, with diamonds, all 

from a salero, and give her labios calientes; take 

the hot lips from leaves of the bush psychotria, 

beloved of hummingbirds, to make her human 

and not human. Shape her face like that 

of Sylvia before the missionary’s shotgun murder. 

Make this Angel Sylvia a living and holy 

curadora wrapping her star and gemstone skin 

around all of America del sur, and paint her eyes 

closed in her warm embrace from living leaves 

to bless the faded jungles into green again. 


79


Jerry Craven 



81

Andrew Geyer 


The sun has set at last on the summer solstice, Robert, 

and I begin my watch. Next to you here on the piano bench, I 

can almost feel your warmth as you start into “Clair de Lune.” 

Almost. I ache for your touch, for the feel of your skin against 

my skin, for the weight of your body on mine. 

But like the plaintive chords of Debussy’s most famous 

piano suite, I am ethereal. 

On this shortest night of the year, a full moon rides 

high in the South Carolina sky outside the living room window. 

In the light of that moon, which is the only light in the 

house, you look almost as ghostly as me. Almost. 

According to pagan folklore, evil spirits appeared on 

the night of the summer solstice and magic of all kinds was 

at its strongest. As it turns out, those early pagans were right. 

Almost. It isn’t just evil spirits, though, and we don’t really 

appear—we’re here all the time—but on the night of the summer 

solstice the barrier between the worlds is so thin we can 

be seen. Even touched. 

But we can only make contact with those who are 

reaching out. 

Instead of reaching out, Robert, you are looking inward. 

Looking back. Staring into the past the way you always 

do when you play those sad French songs. Debussy. Chopin. 

Satie. You sit alone in the dark, your hands stroking the keys 

instead of me, reliving that awful night nearly five decades ago 

when I died in your arms. 

“Stay with me, Millie,” you said, your voice breaking. 


It was September 23rd, 1918. We were upstairs in our bedroom, 

and I lay dying of the Spanish flu. “Promise me. You have to 

stay, because I love you.” 

I was drowning, my lungs so full of fluid I could barely 

breathe. I wanted so badly to live for you, and for our unborn 

baby girl, more than I’d wanted anything ever before. “I . . . 

I promise,” I managed, finally. Drowning, burning alive with 

fever, both at the same time. 

Until suddenly, I wasn’t. 

Instead, I found myself standing next to you. You sat on 

the edge of our bed, staring down at the shell of flesh I’d just 

stepped out of. My skin was blue-tinged as a bruise, bloody 

froth rimmed my lips, and the China doll you’d bought for our 

daughter-to-be was propped up beside me on the pillows. You 

looked so young. So young, and so terribly sad. We both did. 

I’m not sad anymore, Robert. I’m still here. Still on 

watch, nearly a half-century later, trapped within the walls of 

this house I died in by the promise I made. But the things I’ve 

learned while waiting have brought a sense of peace. 

The years have been unkind to you. 

I’ve watched you age. The lines crept onto your face as 

you married that other woman, raised a houseful of sons, became 

a widower again. The crow’s feet deepened around your 

eyes as you trained your gaze back into the past and played 

your sad songs—always alone, even when surrounded by your 

new family. 

They also aged, and left you here with a ghost you refuse 

to see. 

I’m still young, Robert. Still carrying our daughter-tobe. 

In this place between the worlds, time—like the sun on 

the summer solstice—stands still. It seems to me just days 

ago that we fell in love dancing the foxtrot at Hickman Hall. 

Wasn’t yesterday August 29th, 1917, and weren’t we getting 

married at St. Thaddeus Episcopal Church? Oh Robert, look 

at me. Hear me, please. Don’t let the tragedy of the night I 

died blot out the triumphs of the days we reveled in. 


83

In ancient Rome, the longest day of the year was sacred 

to Juno, the Goddess of women, marriage, and childbirth. It 

was a popular time for weddings, for it was believed that Juno 

would bless the union and ease the passing of newborn souls 

from the world of spirits into the world of flesh. Perhaps the 

Romans, like those of us who live between the worlds, could 

sense the thinning of the walls that separate the living from 

the dead. 

In the here and now of this night of the summer solstice, 

I reach my hand toward yours. If you would only turn 

toward me, meet my gaze, intertwine your fingers with mine, 

we could breach those walls and make contact. 

But your whole focus remains on the piano keys. 

It won’t be long before you shed your skin and join us. 

The fiery spirit that is our unborn baby girl will finally separate 

from her mother and the three of us will move on into the 

next world together. I catch glimpses of that world from time 

to time, superimposed against the night sky like the aurora 

borealis—crackles of color and whispers of light amid a cacophony 

of sound like a thousand orchestras playing jubilant 

chords all at once and forever. 

For tonight, though, the melancholy notes of “Clair 

de Lune” swell out of the piano at your fingertips and sweep 

across the moonlit living room to fade into the dark. Tonight, 

Robert, as I lean toward the warmth of your body but feel only 

heartbreak, I promise to keep my watch. 

End of special section: Magic Realism in Digital Art 


Jose Olade 

Candela 

Within the dilapidated cathedral 

Exists an empty fire pit. 

Old ashes now removed 

Of rickety fires that once were lit, 

Its empty belly howls for flames to exist. 

A hole waiting for its abyss to be filled. 

One afternoon destiny seemed curious 

As much as the girl who entered the room. 

With the cold night at the doorstep, 

Incandescence invited their joy to bloom 

She began collecting wood 

Myrtle trees were abundant that afternoon. 

She created a perfect bonfire 

Glowing brighter than the fogged moon. 

The fire started quite delicately 

It wanted everything to work perfectly 

The girl seemed amused and genuine 

So it tried to impress her desperately 

Its flames began to grow 

It grew big and red with heated spasms 

It had lost its sense of prudence 

It was obsessed with selfish enthusiasm 

The girl began to back away 

The flame kept growing furthermore 

She was lost not knowing what to do 

The pit had no clue she had been burned before 


85

She could only try to ignore the flame 

Perhaps then it would dissipate 

The cathedral was suddenly engulfed in smog 

As the pit consumed the last log 

Yet it somehow noticed the fear within her 

And blamed itself quite like a sinner 

Its actions made it feel unjust 

As its burnt logs crumbled to dust 

The girl, now free, quickly ran away 

In the pit nothing but ash remained, 

With no one to remove its ashtray 

It must rely on time and wind and rain. 

The girl sometimes visits the cathedral 

Her interest no longer in the saddened pitfall, 

The pit can only contemplate 

And be satisfied with her presence 

That radiates a caring essence 

Even if his loneliness is ever present. 


Ianna Chay 

One Night 

She laid on a carpet of green that was pierced with faintly scented delicacies 

and she spoke of her night and of the one she loves 

to the moon and the stars who push their light through the dark: 

I was happy until he leaned in and that cloud - 

that damn cloud that darkens his vision 

and inflicts a great weight upon his shoulders 

constantly pushing him down 

and penetrating through his soul with its acidic rain 

leaving him with a void he tries to fill 

while holding no knowledge of how to 

began to hold me in its grim arms as if we were friends 

I was happy until the absent feeling of supreme youth 

pressed itself against my supple lips and body 

I was happy until the humid blue taste of death 

pervaded my mouth and began suffocating all that it could reach 

[my heart, my brain, my soul, and let us not forget my lungs and my throat] 

I was happy until the cold wind 

whispered words soaked in despair 

sending icy chills down the meanders of my body 

He pays the figure with no face 

in the black cloak who holds a scythe 

eleven minutes of his life [that we could have shared] 

for a momentary pleasure only he feels 


87

A rigid pressure then pushed itself up from within my stomach 

pierced through my heart 

bruised its way up my throat 

and finally rammed itself into the back of my eyes - 

but the damns held tight and did not allow the pain to release 

So I inhaled deeply in an attempt to respire an untainted air 

I bit hard on my lip in an attempt to relocate the pain 

and I pulled him close to me and tightened my grip around him 

in an attempt to 

fill up the emptiness with love 


protect him from the world and himself 


keep him here lose to me 

while both our hearts are still warm and beating 

But what lingered mocked my efforts 

reminded me of my lot of control 

and proclaimed my inadequacy 

Why must it hurt so much to love someone so dearly 

Why must we pay so much for our pleasures 


Ianna Chay 

Today I Thought About How 

She 

and 

wanted 

me to take 

pictures of 

their wedding 

because 

She 

was in love 

with this soldier 

and just admired me and my work 

You 

wanted 

to make me 

yours 

till death do us part 

because 

You 

liked 

that I took pictures 

and just wanted to be with me 

Supposedly 


89

Supposedly 

She 

and 

You 

instead of 

planning for her wedding— 

instead of 

being with and loving me— 

moved on to new things 

to one another 

quite quickly and easily 

shared intimate moments together 

the two of you 

which 

turned out 

to be true 


Victoria Phillips 

Parsing 

(verb, gerund or present participle: parsing 

1.) to analyze into parts and describe syntactic roles. 

2.) to analyze into logical components, typically in order to test conformability. 

3.) to examine or analyze minutely.) 

I used to enjoy parsing ashes. 

Oh, what I thought could be freshened 

by many long licks of flame, 

and a kiss on the forehead during the fever. 

I’ve bent and broken universes 

and now have spotted hands. 

Don’t laugh! but a naked me, still standing, 

should leave quickly 

at the end. 

This little spark has wet her matches: 

my pocket holds thumbs, grey matter, and glue, 

and a terrible misconception of 

words like family and time. 

But, Oh!, my Fire-Girls 

of muddle and restitution, 

you cannot burn yourselves enough for them, 

not on any altar they will build you. 

For all this, they will not declare you clean. 

So hear me as I’m melting, 

and hear me before I’m gone, 

And buy your boots for climbing, 

for leaping, and to run, 

not for standing so damned long 

in the burn. 


91


Love Song to Toxic Bonds 

Do not wonder if I miss you. 

Know that I do. 

But know to the deepest core of your knowing 

that this is because 

Dopamine responds most to intermittent rewards. 

Thus meaning, 

every soaring kiss and heated caress followed by 

each cruelty, 

bloody insult, 

bruise, 

piece of me 

smashed and torn in the narrow space 

between your control 

and your long, lovely fingers 

gnarled into a fist 

just made me crave you more. 

Do not wonder if I know this; 

I see clearly now. 

Adrenaline pumps 

harder than hard 

harder even than you 

when fear becomes familiar. 

A daily dose does more than humble, 

and horses are broken with less, my Love, 

than your daily provision. 

So I loved you 

and trembled in my horror alone. 

Do not wonder if I miss you. 

Know that I do. 

But you, I see clearly now, 

and I am too far gone 

to ever forget my knowing. 


Clarissa M. Ortiz 

The Becoming of Wind and Wildfire 

I’ve never known my place. 

Piece by piece, I crop the limbs 

in my unruly forest of tall, tall trees. 

In my insolent field of wildflower weeds. 

Ripping restless roots at their seams, 

crushing ripe and fleshy leaves 

with each tributary of my tender palmistry 

carved by my Mother’s hands 

and her Mother’s hands 

and every Sacred Mother’s hand before 

until nobody could remember anymore. 

The dull scraping of autumn leaves 

prunes needlessly, over and over again 

with the shaking hands of a manic trim 

destroying the yield of a rancid legacy, 

exterminating pristine yards 

of ingrown memories, 

and littering my lawn with poppy seeds 

while crudely torn petals 

seeping Esperanza yellow 

float on by 

like defiant hair 

twirling down a porcelain sink. 

I claim the remains to build my own 

fragrant house of thyme and twigs. 

A beautiful pyre, 

becoming wind and wildfire, 

smoldering in Blessed solidarity. 


93

Thick smoke weaves between eager eyes, 

whispering hushed rumors to painted lashes. 

Among muted tone and starving gaze 

I accept that my landscape 

never fit the portrait 

and no matter how tiny I fold it, 

My secret garden, 

My vacant throne 

still hasn’t found 

A place that feels like home. 


Jacob R. Benavides 

You or I 

i. Alone 

I wanted to be alone. To 

be without sound, to be alone. 

To be 

Alone. 

In solidarity, the mind whispers loudly 

and you ignored the pleas, but what of me. Why 

do I stay silent. Sanctimonious Silence sometimes is 

what it is, but none the less never wiser. 

Give me. 

assurance that I refuse to scream for 

Hear me. 

wander the woods wildly waning and wondering 

Kiss me. 

under pretense someday you’ll say sorry while slithering silently. 

Hold me. 

but do not. 

I wanted to be alone. 

ii. Cosmogony 

Define it 

the astral bodies never do leave 

for they staked a claim. Do 

you follow a model set in the stars 

are the constellations remains of a war, a 

war that I had already lost. 

It’s said and done. However, 

I spoke to one. 


95

I invited one into my room, let it swirl 

let it twirl 

let it warp itse lf 

a 

par t 

let it dance, waxing like the moon. A constellation 

never looked so much like you 

as it does now; enchanting, prancing, ever entrancing 

never has it made me so angry 

as it does now; fucking good for nothing 

never have I loved how it reminds me of something new 

as I invited the constellation in just as I did for 

you 

too 

too 

true 

iii. I ate the star 

I ate the color 

I swallowed it whole 

I swallowed the hue 

I let it drop down. And 

through my heart 

it burned a hole. 

I sipped from the black 

hole. 

To fill the whole 

space it ate away at. 

the body 

holy communion 

the blood 

every. star. 

every. constellation. 

every. body. 

you. hold. 

you are but a hole. 


iv. Adam. 

The winter air, the summer heat; it all seems contradictory. Yet, 

still seemingly surreal and natural, the heat of your hands 

the isolation- no. 

the immolation set fire to the woods we wandered. 

Every nickel, every quarter 

Tender to be tender to you 

I was just as scattered. But just the same I 

gathered every cent, every sense and listened to 

every scent for the moment. Now 

gone. 

A supernova simultaneous and sordid. 

Then, it all 

Began. 

That night the air was thick 

and so was ambition. A hand on your thigh, through the 

stardust into ambiguous fear. 

Fear at once knew my hand, as much as it knew every hair on your face, 

Every glance and I set the pace, 

running, sprinting, and limping 

all at once. 

The way you give a look 

as if it were sterling every time. 

A generous hand you had, and still 

I close my world, breathe in your eyes 

Inhaled your glare; Let the stare coat my throat and 

let it go as if I could afford more 

as if I wasn’t emotionally worn; already opening another door. 

I let astral bodies build, let them set 

Keeping count of every single tear wept. 

I held out my hand, 

overworked, over-stretched and overbearing the weight of a line enjambed. 

I remember the words. 

The anticipation. 

Keeping the wind between us warm 

but never blazing. 


97

It built 

boiled and 

toiled I was 

coiled around you 

entoiled in a slew of false inhibition. 

I remember as bright as the blush 

“I would have held you; I would have.” 

I would have 

I would 

I should 

I should have. 

“I would have kissed you; I would have.” 

I would have 

I would 

I didn’t 

when we did 

when you slipped into the blue 

into the hue, 

that i ate, 

and swallowed. 

i wander. wonder 

if i was the holethe 

whole space between 

maybe just maybe 

between you and I 

it was a mistake. a lapse in what i Wanted 

from you. What am i then in this To 

you? is this what we are to Be. 

With You. 

Alone. 


Robb Jackson Memorial 

High School Poetry Awards 

Beginning in 2017, the Robb Jackson Poetry Contest was founded 

to encourage student poets and empower student voices by honoring 

their written word. High school students across the Coastal Bend have 

contributed their thunderous works, and we are pleased to showcase their 

inspiring pieces in this volume of the Windward Review. 

Named in honor of the late Robb Jackson, the contest celebrates 

Robb’s personal mission as a professor and local poet in this community. 

Uplifting emerging writers as a devoted mentor, teaching the craft, and 

providing a critical platform for young poets that wanted to be heard. 

As the winner of 2018’s contest—and a current student of TAMUCC’s 

creative writing program—I knew this feeling. Writing is a timeless form 

of expression, and poetry gives us the means to make silent words into 

those thunderous works; enriching our lives, alleviating hidden pains, 

and inviting readers to share in our personal journeys. 

As a young student, I was introduced to the contest—and the People’s 

Poetry Festival—by my high school creative writing instructor, Joseph 

Wilson. I am honored to publish his own work this year as well, a 

testament to how far I’ve come, how invaluable his teachings were to me 

as a fledgling writer. 

Creative writing is a journey all its own, and a skill rarely nurtured 

at the high school level. For me, it was a precious gift to be mentored in 

the craft, for the contest to validate my work and abilities. Now, as a senior 

member of The Windward Review and People’s Poetry Festival teams, I 

want to pass those feelings of success, validation, and accomplishment on 

to the next generation of young poets. 

To our winners, I am so happy to feature your tremendous work 

in this critical journal. I hope this publication affirms the importance of 


99

your voice in our community, as emerging poets with a wealth of creative 

talent waiting to be explored. It takes a great deal of courage to submit 

your work for judging, but I am so glad you trusted us with your works. I 

hope this victory ignites your creative passions, and that you continue on 

the path of creative writing—as a cherished voice in our community. 

Poetry is no small thing. It’s an obsessive craft that demands attention, 

but if you are passionately in love with writing—as your work 

proves—it will take you to great heights. Believe me, I was once where you 

are now. 

Wishing you all the best on your journey, 

-Dylan Lopez, Asst. Managing Editor 

2020 Featured Winners 

Jamie Soliz 

1st place 

Confession, Confession, Confession 

Teacher: Krystal Watson 

2nd place 

Katie Diamond 



3rd place 

Mackenzie Howard 

Doubt 

Teacher: Delma Ramos 


Honorable mentions 

Eliana Martinez 

2007 

Kevin Craig 

Do You Remember 

Nailea Vazquez 

6 

Ciara Rodriguez 


Xavier Angelo Ruiz 


Teacher: Belinda Covarrubiaz 




Teacher: Amy Weber 


101

Jamie Soliz 

Confession, Confession, Confession 

I’ll sleep in the fire 

And wake up in the f-fridge 

Drove the cab down 

into the lake 

woke up in salt 

I’ll sink to the depths 

of great r-repetitive obsession 

And float 

You won’t see me 

hidden in the thick liquid 

of my words 

In wait 

for my joy 

to become 

my next slurry 

solid thought 

And I held the gun 

I mean I mean 

I held the knife 

to the neck of beauty 

Falling down the grave 

I was born an artist without 

pain 

Ironically my numbness 

means nothing to Poe 

How Poe handled me 

will be the question I take to 

God 

He lied and laughed 

at my broken brush 

The stroke of s-strokes 

in my chest painted 

“You’re funny and so am I” 

In the fire, 

I was afraid of life 

To the f-fridge was empty 

and empathy 

The anarchist artist 

click ticks by the poverty 

minutes 

And burns books 

titled “Art to pain or pain to 

art” 

And I held the bullet 

I mean I mean 

I held the bullet 

to the painter 

And told him 

And God told him 

“You’re funny and so am I” 

Ironically He lied 

and He died 


efore pride 

was on our side 

But besides 

I found 

the silver path 

down Silvia Plath 

Last night, 

baked my left arm 

because nothing I do is right 

And n-nervously 

I kicked my legs 

when he brought up Taxi 

Driver 

And he told me 

I mean I mean 

the doctor told me 

I was too schizophrenic 

for my stutter 

And and I strutter 

the jacket 

that conceals 

my appeals 

of evaporated thoughts 

And I thought 

Gotta get 

gotta get 

outta here 

gotta, get 

outta outta here 

But Doc 

I’m telling you 

“You’re crazy and so am I 

Fire just looks so lonely. 

I want to give it a hug. 


103

Katie Diamond 


It glimmers, light peeks through the cedar trees. 

It shines, the edges of the window frame are softly lit. 

The worn wooden door creaks as it opens. 

I step out of the old log cabin to see a billion glittering stars. 

As I make my way through the seemingly frozen forest, 

where time seems to cease, I can see 

it, the radiance of the glowing moon as it looks down at me. 

It is breathtaking. 

A giant glowing sphere sitting among countless constellations, 

a masterpiece. 

The frozen dew is illuminated atop the tree leaves. 

As I stand in silence, I attempt to take in the beauty around me, 

but it is impossible. 

The only way for time to continue is for the glowing rays of the sun 

to peek out from beneath 

the golden grasslands. 



Doubt 

It takes up your mind 

It walks right in 

Takes a seat 

By the window to your soul 

You show it your thoughts, 

Each and every good thought, 

It eats them up 

All of them. 

Unknowingly 

You serve them up. 

The lovey dovey 

Cupid struck 

Heart shaped thoughts 

The excited 

Jump for joy 

Smiling sun shaped thoughts 

The thoughts 

Of friends 

Of family 

Of pets 

Of hobbies 

That used to make you happy 

All of them 

Served on a silver platter 

For an unwelcome guest. 

The guest eats them up 

But picks at them slowly 

Rations them 

Let’s them linger 

Savors the taste 

Long enough 

That you don’t notice 

Until half the plate 

Is gone 

And you can’t remember 

What the meal 

Used to be 

You know 

You can’t put the food 

Back on the plate 

And the customer won’t leave 

And the customer won’t pay 

And perhaps the plate isn’t 

Half empty 

Maybe 

The guest 

Has replaced the thoughts it’s eaten, 

Each and every good thought, 

With something new 

Something that doesn’t belong 

Something sad 

Something scary 

Will your guest tell you 

It’s name? 

Will your guest give you 

The name of its thoughtless gift? 

I doubt it. 


105


2007 

I’m going home. 

My mom did not pick my sister and I up. 

It’s her friend who came for us. 

Today is different. 

Two young girls await the surprise 

the driver said our mother had. 

The sun smiles at me through the back window 

as music moves throughout the vehicle. 

I dance in my booster seat. 

My sister sings. 

Today is exerting. 

Is he coming home? 

How will we ever guess? 

I’m ready for my surprise. 

And now we’re here. 

We rush inside. 

I will never forget today. 

I walked inside to see two men. 

They dress very nicely. 

It’s dark in the room. 

My mom is holding a box of tissues. 

I wonder what is wrong. 

The men say he won’t be coming home. 

I don’t understand. 

He’s not coming back. 

I cried. 

They call him a hero, 

A savior of our country, 

A true American. 

I call him my dad. 

He’s gone but not forgotten. 


Kevin Craig 

Do you remember? 


How we’d walk and promise we’d be forever? 

Laugh and smile under the summer sun 

How we’d run 

Without thinking how life would be 


The morning snaps, sipping our iced coffees 

Finding relief in the AC of school 

Saying goodbye, kisses on cheeks 

English, Spanish, Math flew by 

Friends, gossip, high school life 

Never thought I’d cry 

Here – 

Here was our safe place 

Home to our trophy cases, 

Witness to awkward teen affection 

Our haven of learning 

And then it started burning 

The screams, the shouts, we shut our ears 

This was what our parents had feared 

The cries for help 

Extinguished by shots from hell 

Darkness caressed us as we hid 

My only thought, “how could this happen?” 

To us, we were perfectly average 

Now, our bodies, my friends, maybe you 

They laid scattered 

A million panicked, thoughts raced through my mind 

Is this what we deserved? 

Whose nerve did we strike? 


107

But within those dark orbs lay a haunting sadness 

Looking into mine 

I expected to see my life flash away 

Instead I saw your loneliness 

The times no one remembered you 

The times rain washed over you at lunch 

How no one gave you a second thought 

As you walked home alone every day 

How no one noticed you slipping away 

Into a worsening spiral of self decay 

And now we would be the price to pay 

I had never noticed this part of you 

How could I have loved someone so malignant? 

You were everything to me 

When did you become so distant? 

And all I could think of then was my morning with you 

I remembered our unfinished things to do 

Picking up your little brother 

Cooking your mom dinner 

Having a family of our own 


Maybe the memories could stop this, stop you 

Weren’t we more than a memory? 

The sirens played their sound of salvation 

The footsteps of the rescuers thundered through the empty halls 

If I could maybe just keep you like this 

Or make you remember me 

I told myself to just breathe 

Your eyes grew darker 

And you raised your sinister hand 

I whimpered a sorry 

And you said, I’m sorry, too 

And then, a final thought 

You couldn’t remember, could you? 

I imagined seeing you again 

Before you were lost, 

When you were still mine 

Before you sealed my fate 

Before you sealed our fate 


Nailea Vasquez 

6. 

Even though you are still alive, 

You can feel the cold ice breath of death 

Grazing the pale red rose cheeks of life, 

For we have parted ways 

Since the fisheye lens made us look like greatness 

And blemished the impurities in ourselves 

We have always acted on cue and to the best 

But the reality 

Was that our beats were entirely contrary 

I tried to break the mold to fit your needs and shape 

But I ended up breaking my wings and soul in an attempt to escape 

For we are life and death and everything will forever do us apart. 


109



You were always yelling and screaming you were always fighting 

Your words were like knives constantly slicing me with every word 

that was spoken 

I wanted to scream until I ran out of breath 

Hoping you’d shut up and stop fighting about whose fault it is 

Your fighting left me alone 

Your fighting took everything from me 

Your fighting made me realize my life was a lie 

Your fighting made the days and nights so silent you could hear my crying 

from a mile away 

This wasn’t my fault you told me repeatedly 

I knew it wasn’t, it was yours 

You weren’t happy but you didn’t have the courage to leave 

You stayed for me, to preserve my happiness but you ruined it by staying 

By staying you made my world collapse and the ruins swallowed me 

I wanted to ask when did you lose your happiness 

I wanted to ask when did you realize your marriage is a sham 

I wanted to ask did you resent me because I’m a reminder of the pain he caused 

I wanted to ask do you still love me 

But I knew the answer 

You loved me like people love having a rock in their shoe 

A rock that’s constantly stabbing you with every step that was taken 

You loved me like a dog loves a cat 

A dog that barks at a cat just for walking past them 

You never loved me because I’m a reminder of what could’ve been 

You could’ve been happy with someone else but instead, you had me 

Me. A child you used to save your marriage 

A child that didn’t save your marriage A child that you resented because she 

couldn’t save your sinking ship of a marriage 




I am the morning breeze The summer wind gently brushing 

against your cheek The beautiful sunset over the horizon 

The morning dew upon the fresh cut grass The sound of the 

brustling palm trees 

I am the barking dog you hear waking up on the early morning The 

mocking of the starlings upon the cable lines The woodpecker gracefully 

tapping into the maple The waves crashing against the soft sand and 

The children running around with water guns and smiles 

I am the alarm clock that wakes you up The hot shower 

that washes away all of the pain The clothes that 

express the inner thoughts The hairbrush that gently 

moves through your hair 

I am the sun of the summer The gentle caress of the warm 

beams protruding The drop of sweat gently sliding down 

your face The fading sound of children’s laughter in the 

distance I am the best of what makes the summer But you 

cannot hold onto the summer forever 

Soon it’s taken away 

The palm trees will shed their last leaf 

The air will become damp 

The laughter has suddenly completely halted 

The waves begin to slow 

The birds are no longer soaring high through the sky 

The dog is asleep 

The children have grown up 

The water runs cold 

And the alarm clock no longer give you the hope that it once did 


111

The world is silent now 

The wind is gone 

The birds at rest 

What you once knew as a place of warmth and laughter 

Has gone cold 

And you are now left here alone 

I am now the frozen lake 

The deer whose lost its mother 

The thick layer of snow that is too hard to dig through 

The gray sky that is holding back all of the light 

I am the touch of the cold metal 

The pain of your feet upon the frosty floor 

The sharp pinch in your lungs when you inhale the winter air 

But the winter is unknown 

Something that many refuse to witness 

For what is shown is the sunshine 

Not the cold, lonely winter nights 

But winter always passes 

And if you triumph through the deadly nights 

You will see what is on the other side 

The new beautiful blossoming trees 

The laughter 

And the joy 

Within the blink of an eye, it’s summer again 

And the warmth rushes back into your heart 

But you must now prepare 

For winter always returns 

For this is, the way of the seasons. 

End of special section: Robb Jackson Memorial High School Poetry Awards 


Joseph Wilson 

Sophocles and Fireflies 

after lightning storms 

and May rain 

I see fireflies 

in the pasture 

for the first time 

this spring 

one 

then another 

then many 

more 

reminder 

of my youth in Indiana 

humid summer evenings 

in grandma’s back yard 

joy 

of capturing 

in a coffee can 

of swatting 

with a wiffle bat 

I was young 

Sophocles writes 

about light and darkness 

clarity be the end-all 

I see her fill 

the vivid red dress 

I hear her tentative soft voice laugh 

like a windchime in a slight breeze 

I feel the brush of her ring finger 

like silk tracing my cheek 

I think about fireflies 

reminder 

of my sweetheart 

long married 

happily to 

another man 

I sense her in my darkness 

then I crash into her 

at Central Market 

carefully chosen word in passing 

conflicted smile 

slow parting 


113

Joseph Wilson 

Undated Photograph of my Mother 

with her Three Sisters 

(photographer unknown, taken in Indianapolis, Indiana, probably West Street circa 1932) 

My mother Mary sits between her older sisters 

Franny, whose left hand graces my mother’s shoulder, and Laverne 

The baby Leona sits astride dear Franny’s legs 

While my sweet aunt’s right palm, such a large good hand 

Holds her baby sister secure against her chest 

As if Franny knows 

Already knows how danger and disappointment 

Stand across the street in the shadows 

Smoking stubby cigarettes 

Spitting out tobacco leaf ends 

Sharing filthy stories 

Comparing the lasting damage of their cruel tricks 

Meanwhile my beloved mother looks straight into 

The aperture not exactly sure 

Being so young, perhaps three or four 

What this all means 

Her face is not willfully composed for the camera 

Unsettled and unsure of what is to come 

In this next moment or the eighty years in front of her 

Including her marriage and four children and miscarriage 

Her divorce from my father 

The courtship and marriage to Walter 

Their move to the Arizona high desert and 

Then the slow exacting deaths of her own mother and sisters 

Like bright little lamps sputtering out 

One by one by one by one 

What would we do if we knew what would happen 

What could we do what could we do what could we do 


Joseph Wilson 

On Reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” 

Out Loud 

Part One 

I walk to the front of Barnes and Noble 

A large bookstore by Corpus Christi standards 

I am happy we have it and 

Rainbow Books 

And Half-Price Books 

What would a city be without books 

Early this morning at 9 my beloved friend and colleague 

Christine DeLaGarza read Chapters one and two 

All day long volunteer customers and 

Tapped employees have kept the novel moving 

Two of my most wonderful students 

Erin and Olivia 

Just completed their time slots 

Now 

I will begin chapter 30 

Where Nelle Lee sets up her title 

In the words of young Jean Louise with 

“Well, it’d be sort like shootin’ a mockingbird, wouldn’t it” 

Then the concluding six pages 

Which make up chapter 31 

Including arguably 

The most famous words from the book 

“Atticus was right… you never really 

Know a man until you stand in his shoes and 

Walk around in them” 

I first read this great book when I was ten years old 

And then again right before the movie came out 

Twice on the fiftieth anniversary of publication in 2010 

As I taught it to my Advanced Placement seniors that year 

The first and only time 

Unless you add me reading it aloud to my own children 


115

Part Two 

I sit down in the low chair 

Take a sip of water 

Put on my red reading glasses 

I think about how Atticus became the model papa for me 

My namesake deserted my brother Paul and me 

My step-father had been deserted himself by his father 

He did the best he knew how to do 

But Atticus was reasonable, articulate, fair, and a crack shot 

I have tried to follow his lead as a father 

Part Three 

I look up at the small congregation of onlookers 

Friends, colleagues, fellow lovers of this singular book and 

Random passersby 

In the empty back row chairs 

I imagine my daughter and my son sitting 

I imagine my mother and my father sitting 

I imagine all of my former literature students sitting 

I imagine Truman Capote sitting 

I imagine Gregory Peck sitting 

I imagine Harper Lee and her daddy sitting 

I wet my lips 

Take a deep breath 

I begin 


Jacinto Jesús Cardona 

The Old Courtesy Clerk 

The old courtesy clerk likes to write 

he started as a stock boy 

at La Quemazón the home of burning prices 

the metaphor stirred his love for words 

he writes on checking deposit slips utility bills 

crisp magazine subscription cards 

he laughed out loud when he wrote in his journal 

courtesy clerk goes beserk 

he knows he’s full of bosh doesn’t plan to publish 

perish the thought yet he polishes each scribble 

like a Turkish lamp 

the old courtesy clerk double checks the dead bolt 

shakes his pillowcase makes the sign of the cross 

perhaps he’ll wake up with less ache 

molting like a crab the sweet crack of extraction 

leaving behind dry skin liver spots a bad back 

if he’s lucky the old courtesy clerk will dream again 

of indigenous hands stretching his wrinkled skin 

tattooing a brief history of Peruvian embroidery 


117

Rob Luke 

So Junior High 

Bernie Peterson, the reading teacher 

to a majority of delinquents, their 

random brainpans hardwired with 

schema cobbled by network T.V. sitcoms. 

Mr. Peterson wore his funeral suit everyday. 

His face contorting to a shade of red each day 

he died a thousand deaths, facing down 

belligerence and flatulence. Chalk dust 

spotted his suits like dandruff, an 

occupational hazard. 

Unlike our peers, Joe and I read everything 

Mr. Peterson dealt us, like mesmerizing 

tarot cards, leaving out the one-eyed jacks and 

jokers. We read as our classmates boomed 

bathroom humor. Mr. Peterson rewarded 

Joe and I with placement in a storage room with 

shelves lined with books, springing us from the 

tone deaf choir of classmates, butchers of 

treble clefs. 

We picked books from the shelves like 

vines laden with fruit, devouring each 

delectable vintage, not of my world, 

where my family tree was stilted and 

withered by drought. We resided in 

that crowded storage room, the 

penthouse of the witness protection 

program —evidence gathering for 

our hidden futures. 


As Bernie Peterson remained behind in 

the den of juvenile delinquency, Joe and I 

plucked lottery tickets, which inferred the 

proclamation of fortune cookies, rewarding us 

like wonks with golden tickets. Our navigation 

through books like the board game Risk where 

empires swelled and felled. Our momentum as 

swift as traversing the contours of Chutes and 

Ladders, replenishing our hemoglobin while 

thrilled by hobgoblins. Our teacher willing to fall 

on his spear, amidst mocking, in his burial suit — 

dressed in a top hat of thorns and tails of 

scorn —to redeem sinners. 


119

Rob Luke 

The Actors Guild 

The oxidized silver station wagon, the 

hearse of our decomposing adolescence, 

rumbled into the Universal Studios 

Tour Lot. On the tour, we gawked at 

Beaver Cleaver’s two-story white house, 

looking as wholesome as a giant carton of 

milk. The Norman Bates house, a macabre 

eyesore, encroached on the California 

sunshine, a cloud of repression, combustible as 

fundamentalist religion. —within a hoot and a 

whistle from motel toiletries and wet towels. 

After the tour, we ushered by young infidels 

off the back lots, as the big, golden orb of the 

sun dropped into the pocket of the streaked 

horizon. Nifty cinematography directed by 

nature, shading the San Andreas fault line. 

Hollywood, the la-la land of excess, compelled 

us to want more, coveted manifest destiny, 

dreamed up from us rubes. 

We crawled under the chain length fence like 

dead end kids and little rascals, ignoring 

growing pains. Darkness covered us like a 

poncho. On the crest of the outer rim, we 

surveyed the world of illusion and movie 

magic. We descended the hill like stuntmen 

who shaved thrice a week. We trespassed on 

studio back lots. We took it all in like a strip 

tease booty show—we liked to watch. 


The flashing lights of security forces ended our 

sojourn. Questioned and then released as 

bumpkin Midwest tourists—who knew 

multiplication tables but little else. We strode 

out of Universal Studios under a heaven full of stars 

that appeared to touch clear down to the Walk of Fame 

over on Hollywood Boulevard, a sidewalk of legends and 

has-beens. We were unaware of the gates locking 

behind us, too naive to realize the difficulty of 

returning in search of our dreams, not envisioning 

letting go of some dreams, not prepared for settling 

for lesser ones, not foreseeing our faith in refusing 

to never, never stop dreaming… 


121

Alan Berecka 

Don’t it Always Seem to Go 

(Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell) 

My friend Larry obsesses 

searches OCLC often 

to find which libraries 

hold his poetry, believing 

these books are his legacy— 

a kind of immortality. 

In their meeting the staff 

and director of a college library 

begin to calculate the amount 

of shelving and books that must go 

to accommodate new over-stuffed chairs 

and collaborative learning spaces 

in the belief that comfort and chatter 

will lead students to knowledge and wisdom. 

In Egypt an ancient scroll’s 

unearthed from layers of dust 

with the greatest of care. 

On it the chief librarian 

from the time of Cleopatra 

fleshes out his plan to add 

a coffee bar and needed pizzazz 

to his drab library in Alexandria. 


Alan Berecka 

Petty Expectations 

My new boss, the same guy who says he fears 

ending up in a poem someday, as if 

that could ever happen, sits waiting 

earnestly for my reply to his question, 

but his query does not compute, 

so I squirm in my seat and sweat. 

I re-ask myself his question, “ 

What can we do to make you love 

your job?” An extended paid leave 

keeps bolting from my brain, 

but I grind my teeth shut 

not wanting the truth to escape 

because there’s the mortgage, 

car payments, and my extravagant 

lifestyle that being a librarian 

at a community college affords me, 

so I nix going all in with honesty 

and remain stumped. I mean ever since I signed 

my first deal with Mammon one summer 

to bale hay for a crazed dairy farmer 

and moved on to engagements as garbageman, 

turd herder, weed wacker, mailroom geek, 

parking lot attendant, telephone operator, 

freshman comp teaching fellow, newspaper 

delivery man, microfiche filer and then finally 

falling into this gig as a librarian, I have never 

asked for more than a decent wage and a sane boss 

from any job, while my wife, our kids, our friends, 

my family, faith, and art have provided me 

more meaning, joy, and love than any man 

has a right to expect, 

but my boss is still waiting 

on an answer. I decide to aim low and ask 

to be taken off of nights. He shakes his head slowly, 

breaks eye contact and begins to explain 

that because of budget cuts, and hiring restrictions 

I will remain as enamored of my job as ever. 


123

Sunayna Pal 

The Concierge at the Hyatt 

R egrets to a sensitive heart are like sudden storms. 

They come uannounced, disrupt the peace, and leave you a little 

weaker than before. 

I have one such regret in my life. It is an apology I wish I’d made: 

Raul - the Concierge at the Hyatt. Dark-skinned with soft lightbrown 

eyes, he stood tall with hands tied at the back in a darker 

shade of uniform, gleaming with mirror-like buttons. A pleasant 

face - I can’t forget as much as I would like to, just like his name. 

In 2016, my husband was to attend a conference in D.C., which 

meant he would be busy from morning to evening. I had free time 

on my hands and the desire to learn about a new place. The receptionist 

told me that Raul could help me get around in the city - a 

new, scary city like Washington, D.C. which could be dangerous to 

a six-month pregnant woman like me. 

“Where can I find him?” 

“He must be outside or near the reception.” 

And he was. I looked at his nametag and recognized him. “I am 

on a budget but want to visit outside. Can you guide me?” 

“Have you seen Bethesda?” 

“Not really.” 

“There is a free circulator bus that goes around town.” 

He guided me elaborately, sensitive to my needs, and helped me 

plan my day. He gave me ideas to make my trip as smooth and comfortable 

as possible and also economical. 

After Bethesda, he guided me around D.C. as well. 


“I have a bad sense of direction. Do you think you could give 

me landmarks instead of left and right?” I confessed when he 

gave me directions to the metro station. It was just two floors 

below the hotel. 

He was so considerate, he smiled and told me, “Better yet, I 

can take you there.” 

“Oh! Are you sure? Don’t you have to be here?” 

“I have to pick something from the basement. I’ll do it now.” 

With a pleasant smile, he guided me from the front-desk to the 

metro station. It was absolutely unexpected. I should’ve tipped 

him then, but I was in a hurry and knew there would be an opportunity 

later. 

For the next four days, he would watch me leave every 

morning, smile, and wish me a good day. Every evening, I would 

eagerly wait to tell him of the wonderful sights that I’d see because 

of his help. I would thank him wholeheartedly. He would 

bow and repeat with a smile, “it’s my duty.” 

I was to leave Washington on the sixth day to return home. I 

discussed with my husband the tip that we would give. It wasn’t 

much, but it was a little more than we would normally tip. 

I got off the elevator with a smile, but Raul wasn’t there in 

his usual space. He must be outside. My husband checked us out 

and I went out to find him, but Raul wasn't there. On enquiring, 

I found out that it was his day off. We had to leave for the plane 

and my hubby was already loading luggage in the cab. In a rush, 

we left, and I didn’t get to tip him or thank him again. 

Sitting in the cab, I thought of the endless ways I could’ve 

tipped him through someone else. Why didn’t I realize it there? 

I ask this useless question often. I saw everything I wanted 

to in the little time I had only because of him. If you ever go to 

Washington, D.C. and stay in the Hyatt. The concierge – Raul is 

very helpful and kind. If you get a chance, do tip him. 


125

Margaret Erhart 

The Gift of 

Thank You 

Non-fiction 

The first time my mother 

sat me down to write a thank 

you letter, I could barely spell my 

name. But with her help I was able 

to come up with the following epistle: 

Dear Aunt Julia, Thank you very 

much for the fuzzy slippers. Tonight I 

am going to wear them to bed. 

Over the years there were many 

more letters to Aunt Julia, my 

mother’s only sister, thanking her 

for alarm clocks, soap dishes, and 

even shoe trees which, for anyone 

too young to remember them, fit 

inside your shoes to help them 

keep their shape. Aunt Julia was 

a practical person who bestowed 

practical gifts, which made it hard 

to work up real enthusiasm in a 

thank you letter. But the point 

wasn’t enthusiasm, my mother reminded 

me, it was thanks. When I 

wrote the words alarm clock or shoe 

trees, I was leaving a mark of gratitude 

on the page. People like to be 

thanked, was my mother’s lesson 

to me, and better still if it came 

from my own hand, neatly penned 

onto good, thick paper and tucked 

into a matching envelope, which 

was itself a gift to be opened by the 

one who sent the gift. 

Thank you letters acquainted 

me with the art of tact. How do 

you thank someone for a frilly 

nightgown you can’t stand, or a 

noisy electric toothbrush you’ll 

never use, or pink writing paper 

with cats on it? I didn’t lie exactly; 

I invented. When my Aunt 

Honey gave me a bathing cap 

covered with silly blue blobs, I 

developed a sudden passion for 

swimming. When my grandmother 

gave me figure skates, I 

was the next Peggy Flemming. 

I chose the truth I wanted to 

convey—which boiled down to 

thanks—and let the details take 

care of themselves. In doing so, I 

became a fiction writer. 

Not long ago I received a thank 

you letter from a gentleman I had 

the pleasure to accompany out 

of Grand Canyon on the Bright 

Angel Trail. He was not a gifted 

hiker, and my job was to make sure 

he made it to the rim. We spent 

many hours inching our way uphill, 

and during the course of that 

time he told me the long story of 

his wife’s recent death, which still 

caused him to weep. In his letter, 

handwritten on good, thick 

paper my mother would approve 

of, he thanked me for my 

“guidance of the physical and 

empathy of the spiritual.” His 

words brought tears to my eyes. 

There’s power in every thank 

you, sincerely given, but to be 

thanked eloquently and on 

the page is more powerful still 

because it’s a gesture for which 

one is enduringly accountable. 


Patricia Alonzo 

A Voice for my Grandfather: 

A Mexican and an American 

Non-fiction 

O 

ften, on Sunday 

mornings, while 

making coffee in 

my cozy kitchen, 

I subconsciously think of my 

grandfather, Francisco R. Perez. 

I remember him vigorously 

sipping a strong cup of coffee. I 

can still hear his animated slurping 

echoes as he inhaled … and 

the boisterous sounds as he exhaled. 

This energy epitomizes 

his strength. When I think about 

my grandfather’s appearance, I 

remember his hands augmented 

his average height; his rough, 

leathery, and swarthy features 

projected endurance. On this 

cold 2006 Sunday morning, I 

once again prepare coffee. While 

it brews, I consider what to make 

for breakfast, and as I contemplate 

making bologna con chile 

(with hot peppers), the memory 

of my grandfather resurfaces. 

As I pour a cup of coffee, my 

grandfather no longer sips his 

coffee in his small shotgun style 

house. His house was located on 

the West Side, a poverty-stricken 

subdivision of Corpus Christi, 

Texas, along the Gulf of Mexico. 

My grandfather’s home 

was extremely cold during the 

winter; however, there was always 

a warmth to it. On Sundays, 

I could always depend 

on Mexican pan dulce (sweet 

bread). My grandfather would 

always purchase an assortment 

of pan dulce from the local 

City Bakery on 19th Street. The 

pan dulce had a rich texture. 

I remember the white cake’s 

density topped with a dark 

pink icing, cut in the shape of 

a triangle, the cookie for its 

chunkiness and crunchy texture 

topped with a red sticky gel 

in the center. I miss the aroma. 

He no longer buys pan 

dulce; his body began to weaken 

in the late 1980s. As his 

health deteriorated, he no 

longer felt comfortable leaving 

his home. He never talked 

about his health, but I knew. 


127

My grandfather was born 

in Bustamante, Mexico, in 1904, 

and died in 1994. He did not 

suffer from the usual illnesses 

many of our ancestors endure 

such as diabetes and high blood 

pressure. More importantly, my 

grandfather did not suffer from 

memory loss. His body simply 

grew old. He did however suffer 

from many injustices still 

relevant today because of his 

language, features, and culture. 

Even though he did not speak 

openly of any personal injustices, 

I can only infer the suffering my 

grandfather experienced. 

As I wonder what my grandfather 

most likely endured, I 

recall a personal experience 

in 2004. On my way to class at 

Texas A&M University-Corpus 

Christi (TAMUCC), I boarded 

the Alameda/NAS bus and sat 

in front of a young lady. She had 

dark hair, dark skin, and spoke 

only Spanish. Shyly, she asked, 

“¿Podrá ayudarme buscar la calle... 

? ‘Could you help me find the 

street...?’” The young lady was on 

her way to clean someone’s home 

and needed help finding her stop. 

Her body language conveyed 

an apprehension of overlooking 

the street on the bus route. 

As we conversed in Spanish, a 

white male, approximately 35 years 

old, with a destitute appearance, 

sitting directly across from us, 

blatantly announced with a gruffly 

voice, “Why don’t ya’ll go back 

to Mexico?” followed by obscenities. 

He continued muttering but 

never looked at either of us directly. 

An awkward silence filled 

the air. I sat in disbelief. The bus 

driver and one other passenger 

sat silently. The Spanish-speaking 

lady gazed out the window in 

search of her street, as if nothing 

had occurred. Perhaps she knew 

exactly what had transpired. I, 

on the other hand was infuriated, 

embarrassed, and speechless at 

his racial remarks. If I experienced 

racial intolerance in 2004, 

I surmised the extent and numerous 

occurrences of injustice my 

grandfather experienced during 

his lifetime. 

The offender departed at the 

next stop, and upon his departure, 

the bus driver and other 

passenger, both males, uttered, 

“Don’t pay any attention to him.” 

However, the sharpness of the 

offender’s language continued 

to pierce my soul. Even though 

my grandfather no longer lives to 

convey his countless experiences 

with prejudice, I deduced that my 

grandfather suffered oppression. 


I recall another time regarding 

public transportation in Corpus 

Christi. A brief memory troubles 

me. I envision sitting on the city 

bus with my mother at a very 

young age, during the late 1950s 

or early 1960s, and as I turn to look 

back, she discourages me from 

staring at any of the black people 

sitting in the rear of the bus. I 

often wonder if this is a fabrication. 

In all likelihood, this is an actual 

scene in my memory because 

“. . . on Dec. 21, 1956, . . . Montgomery’s 

public transportation system 

was legally integrated. . . .” (Dove). 

I decide to make my grandfather’s 

delicious bologna con chile 

breakfast along with tortillas 

while sipping coffee, so I preheat 

the comal (flat cast iron griddle). 

While I search for the ingredients, 

my preteen walks in and 

asks, “What ya cooking?” 

“Bologna con chile and tortillas" 

I respond. 

“Mmm, Yummy,” she replies. 

My daughter, a fourth generation, 

does not speak Spanish; she 

blurts out a few words or phrases 

from time to time. She did not 

get to meet my grandfather, but I 

always tell her stories about him 

to pass on his customs and traditions. 

“Have you ever heard of a 

buñuelo?", I ask her. 

“No,” she replies, and I proceed: 

“A buñuelo is similar to a flour 

tortilla (thin flatbread) but fried, 

then coated with sugar and cinnamon. 

My grandfather would 

make buñuelos for the grandkids 

on New Years’ Eve. I remember he 

would knead the dough.” Then, 

hesitatingly, I ask her, “Have you 

ever seen a pizza chef on television 

toss the dough up into the air?” 

“Yea,” she replies. 

“Instead of tossing the dough 

up into the air,” I explain, “my 

grandfather would stretch out 

the dough over his knee.” 

“His knee?” she responds. 

“Yes,” I reply. “He would place 

a cloth over his knee and extend 

the dough. Then, he would fry the 

dough in hot cooking oil in a large 

cast iron skillet. Afterwards, my 

aunt Tilde (Cleotilde Perez), would 

sprinkle sugar and cinnamon on 

the buñuelo while still hot.” 

While I still have my daughter’s 

attention, I proceed: “I also 


129

learned to make bologna con 

chile from my grandfather. He 

usually made it on Sunday mornings 

with aunt Tilde’s help. He 

would pick fresh chile Petin from 

his backyard. Then, he would get 

the molcajete (mortar and pestle) 

and crush the chile. He would 

say, ¡Está picoso! ‘It’s very hot!’” 

Warmly, she smiles. 

I wonder if there’s chile in the 

backyard. I hope the birds haven’t 

gobbled it all. Before my preteen 

walks away, I ask, “Why don’t you 

mix the ingredients for the flour 

tortillas before you leave the 

kitchen?” 

She replies teasingly, “I knew 

you would ask me to help. Okay.” 

Around the late 1980s, I was a 

freshman in college. I asked my 

grandfather if I could interview 

him for a History 605-A assignment. 

He replied, “Sí, como no. Pues, 

haber si puedo recordarme. 

Ayúdame Tilde. ‘Yes of course. 

Well, let me see if I can remember. 

Help me with this, Tilde.’” At 

times, he had trouble recalling 

names and dates, but my aunt 

Tilde sat by his side through 

every session to prompt him. I do 

not recall how many sessions we 

had since he had to think back 

so many years. There was a look 

about him when he recalled his 

home, and as he looked out in 

the distance, his eyes revealed 

joy as he told his story. 

I have a copy of this interview; 

it’s in the safe! My heart is racing 

as I search for it; I find the essay 

filed away with other important 

documents. The pages have now 

turned yellow. The title page 

reads “Francisco and Catalina 

Perez” dated April 27, 1987. I am 

anxious to read the essay after 

nearly twenty-years, but before I 

start reading, I must stop to chop 

the onions for the bologna con 

chile. 

After chopping the onions, I 

return to the essay and search 

for connections to language, 

culture, and racism. My effort 

is to no avail, but this does not 

surprise me since my grandfather 

never expressed much or complained. 

The essay however did 

disclose that his father’s name 

was Cayetano Perez, a coal miner, 

and his mother’s name was 

Dionicia Ramos, a homemaker 

(Alonzo 1). I remember my 

grandfather explaining: when 

he was growing up in Mexico 

he received a third grade education 

and sold fruits, vegetables, 

bread, and candy before and 

after school to assist the family 


financially. I want to continue 

reading, but I must now sauté the 

onions for the bologna con chile. 

Returning to the essay, I find 

that in 1913, my grandfather “... 

witnessed a war between the 

Carranzistas and the Mexican 

government” (Alonzo 1). My grandfather 

had explained in the interview 

that Jose, his brother, and 

a friend one day walked home 

from work and noticed a train 

had been overturned. The Mexican 

Army accused Jose and his 

friend of partaking in overturning 

the train. My grandfather said 

that his brother and friend hid in 

the mountains for three months 

to protect themselves from the 

Carranzistas (Alonzo 2). As a result 

of social disorder and poverty in 

Mexico, my grandfather immigrated 

to Laredo, Texas, in 1916 

by train, with his parents and 

two younger brothers, Juan and 

Lupe (Alonzo 2). “The Mexican 

Revolution (1910-1920) increased 

the movement of people across 

the Rio Grande” (“Mexican Americans”). 

As I continued reading 

the essay, I learned that Jose and 

Virginia, my grandfather's other 

siblings, remained in Mexico 

and sadly died from a Spanish 

fever around 1917 (Alonzo 2). 

According to Billings, “The influenza 

pandemic of 1918-1919 killed 

more people than the Great War, 

. . . somewhere between 20 and 

40 million people. . . . Known as 

'Spanish Flu' or 'La Grippe,' the 

influenza of 1918-1919 was a global 

disaster.” It is time to remove the 

onions and brown the bologna. 

Immediately, I return to the 

interview essay and learn that 

in 1927, my grandfather met his 

future wife Catalina (Cata) Ramos 

at El Solo Serve, a department 

store in Laredo, Texas, where he 

worked. A year later, he moved 

to Detroit, Michigan to work for 

Ford Motor Company. There he 

took part in assembling the Model-A 

car and consequently learned 

the upholstery trade. While in 

Detroit, he resided in a boarding 

house (Alonzo 2). I recall during the 

interview, my aunt Tilde explaining 

that my grandfather enjoyed 

a breakfast in Detroit, which 

consisted of a stack of pancakes 

topped with fried eggs, bacon, and 

syrup that she too prepared for him 

occasionally on Sunday mornings. 

When he returned to Texas, he 

continued to see Cata. She was 

born in Guerrero Tamaulipas, 

Mexico, in 1904. He married my 

grandmother in 1930, during 

the Great Depression, and the 

following day, he started a life 

with her in Taft, Texas, where he 


131

picked cotton at his uncle’s ranch 

(Alonzo 3). In all likelihood, my 

grandfather could have worked 

at the Taft Ranch—also known 

as The Coleman-Fulton Pasture 

Company—which was perhaps 

the largest and most famous of 

the cotton ranches (Foley 280). According 

to Foley, “In addition to 

the year-round Mexican laborers, 

the company recruited hundreds 

of Mexicans from Laredo, a border 

city about 100 miles west of Corpus 

Christi, to pick the cotton 

during the harvest” (289). While 

my grandfather worked in the 

cotton fields, my grandmother 

worked in the kitchen (Alonzo 

3). I recall during the interview, 

my grandfather’s chuckle at the 

thought of my grandmother in 

the kitchen. 

A 1930’s photograph of my 

grandmother comes to mind; it’s 

in the safe. In the black and 

white professional photo, my 

grandmother poses eloquently, 

projecting an image that reflects 

the 1930’s motion picture celebrity 

era, hence my grandfather’s 

chuckle. 

When I interviewed my 

grandfather, I remember he explained 

he worked on a ranch in 

Taft, Texas, picking cotton, and 

ended on that note. Foley however 

provided accounts of attitudes 

and conditions my grandfather 

most likely tolerated as a Mexican. 

For example, 

The owner of a 2,560-acre 

cotton ranch in Nueces 

County, W. W. Walton, informed 

the immigration 

committee that he was 

so pleased with Mexican 

tenants that he decided 

to put wooden floors in 

their houses. Another 

Corpus Christi farmer, 

Roy Miller, representing 

the Rural Land Owners 

Association, testified 

that housing with floors 

for Mexicans was really 

unnecessary since “The 

Mexican is a primitive 

man . . . ." (Foley 296) 

The author clearly captured 

the attitudes and prejudices of cotton 

farmers. Foley added, “In Texas 

and California large-scale cotton 

ranches became increasingly 

dependent on Mexican labor, and 

during the 1920s ranch owners successfully 

opposed numerous bills 

in Congress to impose immigration 

restriction on Mexicans” (295). 

Imposing immigration restriction 

on Mexicans would be devastating 

to ranch owners. Immigration issues 

continue to resurface and are 

currently disputed. The Mexican 

is welcomed as long as there is 

use for his existence. My grand- 


father, however, never talked 

about the conditions of the time. 

After the harvest, my grandfather 

moved to Corpus Christi, 

Texas, with his wife. He held a 

job as janitor. Ultimately, he began 

working for Perez Mattress 

Company. The upholstery skills 

he had acquired at Ford Motor 

Company led him to this craft. He 

had explained during the interview 

that he would fill the heavy 

textile with cotton. Then, he 

would stitch the fabrics together 

by hand. Consequently, he had 

pierced himself with a very large 

and long needle, which left his 

index finger numb. He worked 

at the mattress company until he 

retired (Alonzo 4). 

As I continue reading the 

essay, I discover that in 1962, my 

grandmother died at the age of 

59 from a cerebral hemorrhage 

(Alonzo 2). I do not recall another 

woman in my grandfather’s life 

after her death; in fact, I do not 

remember him away from home 

except to work. A few years after 

my grandmother died, he began 

the naturalization process and 

became a U.S. citizen on August 

18, 1966 at the age of 61 (Perez). 

It is time to include the sautéed 

onions and eggs to the browned 

bologna. While I add the ingredients, 

I continue to speculate why 

Mexicans and people of Mexican 

descent are most ridiculed for their 

English. Why are they perceived 

subordinate? Even under the 

most outrageous discrimination, 

a country cannot sever one’s core 

identity. There is no need to deny 

one to speak his native language. 

However, for retiree Sam Jones 

. . . and others like him in 

this desert outpost, it was 

a no-brainer when town 

leaders wanted to send a 

message to its growing immigrant 

community. “This 

is America, and in America 

we speak English,” Jones, 

55, said of his interpretation 

of Pahrump’s new English 

Language and Patriot 

Reaffirmation ordinance. 

(Hennessey) 

The English language has 

created such chaos in a nation 

composed of diverse races. 

Throughout the world, the English 

language is learned without countries 

enforcing laws or forcing an 

individual to give up his culture or 

pride. Possession of more than one 

language is undeniably positive. 

Even though my grandfather 

did not have the self-confidence to 

speak in English, he read and understood 

English very well. “Adults 

who immigrate to the U.S., especially 

later in life, may never really 


133

ecome fluent in English. It’s not 

that they don’t want to speak English; 

it’s simply much more difficult 

for them to learn it well" (“Do 

you Speak American?”). Every Sunday, 

my grandfather would buy the local 

newspaper. He would sit by 

his bed and read the paper until 

he read every English word. Every 

Sunday morning, he also listened 

to the Spanish radio station. I remember 

this because he had an 

undiagnosed hearing problem. A 

medical diagnosis was needless 

because the blaring radio identified 

his hearing problem. He 

also listened to the English newscast 

every afternoon. He learned 

two languages and lived in two 

countries, one with whom he 

had strong, familial ties, and one 

unfair to him because of his language, 

color, and customs. I am 

positive my grandfather wanted 

nothing more than to be treated 

equally while on this earth. 

The essay about my grandfather 

does not reveal what he was 

like as a father; no one ever really 

speaks about his parenting skills. 

Nor have I thought to ask. However, 

I have never heard anything negative. 

He was a simple, downto-earth, 

and nonverbal man. 

From my recollection, my grandfather 

had this characteristic about 

him I will never forget: he was very 

private and spoke only when it 

was necessary. He disapproved of 

my aunt Tilde, for example, for 

disclosing the family’s private 

matters. My grandfather would 

say, “No digas nada.” or “No es 

tu negocio. ‘Don’t say anything.’ 

or ‘It’s none of your business.’” 

This memory brings forth Victor 

Villanueva, Jr., an English rhetorician 

and compositionist. Villanueva 

begins his prologue, " 'It’s 

nobody’s business,' Mami would 

say. But I can’t just say nothing. . 

. . But there’s Mami and the Latino 

ways: private things should remain 

private” (xi). My grandfather 

was a firm believer in this concept. 

He enjoyed telling his story 

but nothing private. 

His quietness and insecurities 

perhaps were curtailments 

caused by oppression and ridicule. 

The obedient “yes sir” and 

lowering of the head to the oppressor, 

he regarded as respect 

for people that did not respect 

him and his culture. His insecurities 

perhaps stemmed from not 

knowing the language and from 

people he dealt with in his everyday 

life. In the 1990s for example, 

my grandfather—already in his 

late years—was discriminated 

against through language. A local 

eye doctor, conceivably educated 

solely on the eye, humiliated him 

by talking down to him, since my 


grandfather could not respond 

quickly enough in English to 

the doctor’s questions. Possibly 

my grandfather’s insecurities (of 

speaking in English to a man 

that he identified as an authority 

figure) dissuaded him from 

responding instantaneously. My 

grandfather never expressed 

the humiliation and discomfort 

he experienced, but my aunt 

Tilde witnessed this inexcusable 

and unpleasant scene. My 

grandfather said nothing of the 

occurrence, presumably to avoid 

further mistreatment. He understood 

the language but not quickly 

enough to defend himself. 

Moya writes about an experience 

that Luis Rodriguez, a 

born US citizen retells “In the 

first chapter of his prizewinning 

autobiography, Always Running...”(183). 

According to Moya, “. 

. . Rodriguez (who was born a 

US citizen) witnesses his Mexican 

mother’s humiliation at the 

hands of an 'American' woman 

who contests his mother’s right to 

sit herself and her children on an 

available park bench” (183). Thus, 

I can only deduce the distressing 

and humiliating experiences 

my grandfather never revealed because 

his voice was impermissible. 

While teaching at Del Mar College 

(DMC), a local community 

college in Corpus Christi, TX, a 

young male student asked me, 

“Are you tutoring this weekend?” 

He wanted to know if we 

could meet at the writing center 

because he was having difficulty 

writing his essay about a film 

on the Holocaust. The student 

expressed that he did not understand 

why past issues are 

brought up repeatedly. He expressed 

that it was too painful 

to watch; it saddened him. He 

went further to say that it was in 

the past; it was over. I suggested 

that perhaps he could argue 

why the past should be unspoken 

or ignored. "Why should we 

be reminded or not reminded?", 

I asked the student. He sat 

quietly. Only silence divided us. 

Perl’s words emerge as I reflect on 

this conversation. Perl states, “You 

don’t need to speak right now,” ... 

“But if you have a response, I’d 

like to hear it. . . . . And that one 

way out of this block is to begin 

to speak about it”’ (13). I pondered 

if the student was uncomfortable 

speaking about the atrocities of 

others or perhaps the atrocity of 

the Holocaust was too personal. 

The bologna con chile is 

ready for a little salt and pepper, 

tomatoes, chile, tomato paste, 

and some water. Now, the dish 

can simmer. My grandfather was 

not affectionate in a touchy-feely 


135

sort of way, but his stability made 

me feel safe. He was always poor, 

that is, financially poor. Yet, he 

always had room for one more in 

his small home. My grandfather 

was not an authoritarian; he knew 

how to discipline the grandchildren. 

I remember that as a child, he 

would give the grandchildren a coscorrón 

(“un golpe a la cabeza” ‘a 

knuckle sandwich to the head’). 

His knuckle felt equivalent to 

the traditional decorated eggshell, 

a coscorrón, used to celebrate 

Easter, the Resurrection 

of Christ. A good swift coscorrón 

was my grandfather’s discipline 

when the grandchildren became 

unruly. I am confident the grandchildren 

can laugh about his coscorrón 

since it was merely discipline. 

While this memory is 

pleasant, I often wonder about 

the hardships my grandfather 

was experiencing all along. 

Aside from the obvious racial 

prejudices in the U. S. and turmoil 

in his native country, the Great 

Depression also had an impact on 

my grandfather. My grandfather 

learned to be self-reliant. He did 

not approve asking for handouts 

or assistance. He was always 

cautious of expenditures. Therefore, 

when my aunt Tilde bought 

nonessentials, he would express 

his disapproval. His usual lamentation, 

usually directed to my 

aunt Tilde. went something like 

this: “No compres tanta comida. 

‘Don’t buy so much food.’” This 

attribute undeniably developed 

from life experiences and from 

the economic depression. Unconsciously, 

he taught me to be 

self-sufficient. During the 1980s, 

for example, he showed me how to 

maintain my first automobile. He 

would say, “Tienes que atender 

a las llantas, el aceite, y el agua. 

‘You need to check the tires, the 

oil, and the water.’” He explained 

that this precautionary practice 

would ultimately save me money 

on gas in addition to wear and 

tear. The aroma of the bologna 

con chile fills the house. It is 

time to start cooking the tortillas. 

I had taken an interest in 

learning my grandfather’s 

language, but in the past, I 

only wanted to blend in and 

be accepted. Perl expresses, “For 

most of my life, I have been ambivalent 

about Judaism, more 

interested in blending into a 

Christian world than standing 

out as a Jew” (9). I too did not 

want to stand out. However, that 

notion changed long ago. 

While my grandfather unconsciously 

influenced me to learn 

more about the Spanish language 

and culture, the English 


Only Movement also sparked 

my interest. Spanish became of 

interest because noticeably, my 

grandfather’s Spanish differed 

from what poured out of my 

mouth. Thus, I began a college 

career and enrolled in Spanish 

classes. During my youth, I heard 

both Spanish and English and 

was brought up when Spanish 

was not allowed in school, so I 

learned English by the time I began 

the first grade. I had unconsciously 

learned Tex-Mex, too. 

For many years, I grappled with 

the awareness of not mastering 

Spanish and English equally, 

and noticed a third language, 

Tex-Mex, unfamiliar to either 

culture. I lived in both worlds 

and simultaneously between 

two conflicting worlds, two 

conflicting languages, and two 

conflicting cultures. I adapted 

and accommodated both 

worlds as others have done. 

As I finish cooking tortillas, I 

recalled reading a flyer at DMC 

inviting students to apply for a 

scholarship, which asked students 

to define racism and explain 

if it existed today. I encouraged 

a Hispanic student to apply. 

She responded, “I’ve never experienced 

racism.” 

I responded, “Are you sure? 

Aren’t you the one that always 

says, 'That ain’t right'?” The student 

thought for a moment and 

realized that every time she expressed 

her favorite saying she 

had experienced or witnessed 

some form of discrimination. 

I told her she may have not experienced 

the obvious (as I had 

on the bus), but I explained to 

her how language can be used 

to alter one’s thoughts. She is 

a third generation Mexican and 

she does not speak her native 

language. Because she had not 

experienced obvious discrimination, 

she had never noticed 

that it was happening all along, 

through language. 

I told her about my experience 

in the 1980’s. While working 

for a Texas state agency, an indirect 

message had transpired that 

Spanish could not be spoken in 

the office, and this infuriated me. 

One day, a supervisor of the state 

agency, a non-Spanish speaker, 

asked me to translate for her. I 

retorted, “Oh, so now I have permission 

to speak Spanish.” Consequently, 

I refused to translate. 

The student gazed at me as I 

told her my story. I can only surmise 

that the student did not understand 

why denying a person 

the use of their native language 

was a form of power and a violation 

of one’s legal rights. A couple 

of weeks later, the student asked, 


137

“Would you read my essay? I’m 

applying for the scholarship 

on racism.” 

As I sit with my family to eat 

bologna con chile, I think about 

the tear rolling down one of 

my grandfather’s cheeks as he 

rested on his hospital bed just 

prior to his death. That contradictory 

view of my grandfather 

remains with me. He did not 

sob. He maintained some resistance 

and perhaps his pride. It 

was a look of vulnerability yet 

resistance. In real life, he was a 

manual laborer. His stature was 

short and solid, his skin tough 

and leathery. His tear rolled 

out very softly against his dark, 

tough exterior. I could not help 

him fight for his life, nor could 

I fight for him as he struggled 

with an unjust world. He no 

longer had control of his body, 

nor his destiny. 

speak his language, and continue 

his customs to keep his 

story alive. I will continue 

to retell his story, and I will 

continue to make bologna 

con chile for my family. As I 

sit down to eat breakfast, my 

daughter scoops the bologna 

con chile with homemade 

tortillas. I notice her sighs 

caused by the chile, and the 

thought of my grandfather’s 

slurping sounds resurface. 

My grandfather was born 

a Mexican and died a Mexican-American. 

Was he silent 

because he was ridiculed for 

his heavy accent? Was he silent 

because he never had a 

voice? Perhaps he never had 

permission to speak. The least I 

can do is speak for him to keep 

his memory alive. Therefore, 

in memory of my grandfather, 

I will make his special dishes, 


Works Cited 

Alonzo, Patricia. "Francisco and Catalina Perez." 27 April 1987, pp. 1-5, 

History 605-A, Del Mar College, student paper. 

Billings, Molly. “The Influenza Pandemic of 1918.” February 2005, 

http://virus.stanford.edu/uda/. 

Dove, Rita. “The Torchbearer Rosa Parks: Her Simple Act of Protest Galvanized 

America’s Civil Rights Revolution." Time, 14 June 1999, http://content. 

time.com/time/subscriber/article/0,33009,991252-1,00.html. 

“Do You Speak American? Sea to Shining Sea. Official American. Spanish 

Threat." PBS. 2005, http://www.pbs.org/speak/seatosea/official 

american/spanishthreat/. 

Foley, Neil. “Mexicans, Mechanization, and the Growth of Corporate Cotton 

Culture in South Texas: The Taft Ranch, 1900-1930.” The Journal of 

Southern History, vol.62, no. 2, 1996, pp. 275-302. JSTOR, https:// 

www.jstor.org/stable/2211792. 

Hennessey, Kathleen. “‘English only’ Measure Stokes Frustration.” Los 

Angeles Times, 26 Nov. 2006, https://www.latimes.com/archives/ 

la-xpm-2006-nov-26-admn-englishonly26-story.html. 

“Mexican Americans.” Handbook of Texas Online: The Texas State Historical 

Association. 6 June 2001, http://www.tsha.utexas.edu/handbook/ 

online/articles/MM/pqmue.html. 

Moya, Paula M. L. “This Is Not Your Country!”: Nation and Belonging in 

Latina/o Literature.” American Literacy History, vol. 17, no. 1, 2005, 

pp. 183-195. Project MUSE, https://muse.jhu.edu/article/177257. 

Perez, Cleotilde. Interview. By Patricia Alonzo. 15 October 2006. 

Perl, Sondra. On Austrian Soil: Teaching Those I Was Taught to Hate. State 

U of New York P, 2005. 

Villanueva, Jr., Victor. Bootstraps: From an American Academic of Color. 

National Council of Teachers of English, 1993. 


139

Rossy Evelin Lima 

Tlalli Iyollo 

I 

Abuela venerada, 

soy fruta de su árbol. 

¿Encontraré algún día su vestido? 

ceñido a su cintura, 

vientre de lumbrera 

que se preparaba 

para dar vida 

a mi madre. 

¿Abuela, encontraré algún día su vestido? 

impregnado del ulular sondeado de su pelo 

desgastado por el beso del mar. 

II 

Abuela, es usted la incógnita de mi pasado. 

No hay ninguna foto 

en donde crucemos la mirada, 

como si quisiera evadirme 

sentada desde aquella piedra, 

barriendo la arena con su cabello. 

Siempre la encuentro dándome la espalda, 

apuntando con su perfil mestizo 

este camino que me tomó la mitad de mi vida 

reconquistar. 

III 

Abuela, ¿encontraré algún día su vestido? 

Un pedazo de la tela porosa 


que la cubría, 

un pedazo, 

como el amor del marinero 

que cada año sigue prendiéndole 

una vela. 

Abuela, su vestido, su sonrisa, 

el hueco que dejó en sus hijos, 

las ansias de regresar a mi tierra 

y pertenecer de nuevo, 

¿cómo los encuentro? 

Soy carne de su historia. 

Enséñeme su vestido, 

ese mapa que me llevará a ciegas 

hacia el umbral de su recuerdo perdido 

y mi futuro. 

* Tlalli Iyollo: Abuela venerada que posee una corona hecha con flores 

de algodón. 


141


Tlalli Iyollo 

I 

Venerated grandmother, 

I am the fruit of your tree. 

Will I one day find your dress, 

cinched to your waist? 

Luminary womb 

preparing 

to give birth 

to my mother. 

Grandmother, will I find your dress one day? 

impregnated by the impending howl of your hair, 

worn out by the sea. 

II 

Grandmother, you are a mystery from my past. 

There is no portrait 

where we gaze at each other, 

as if you want to elude me, 

sitting on that rock 

sweeping the sand with your hair. 

I always find you giving me your back, 

pointing with your mestiza silhouette 

at this path that took me thirteen years to reconquer. 

III 

Grandmother, will I find your dress one day? 

The piece of porous cloth 

that covered you, 


a piece, 

like the love of the sailor 

who continues to light a candle for you 

every year. 

Grandmother, your dress, a smile, 

the void left in your children, 

the yearning to return to my land 

and belong again 

where can I find them? 

I am flesh of your story. 

Show me your dress, 

that map that will guide me blindly 

towards the threshold of your lost memory 

and my fate. 

* Tlalli Iyollo: Venerated grandmother, she possesses a crown of flowers 

and cotton. 


143

Juan Manuel Pérez 

Lament For Wounded Knee I 

December 29, 1890 

Red, wounded hearts bled on sacred land 

Where was the white man’s mercy? 

Where was their god, so recently celebrated? 

Caucasians bearing great gifts of revenge 

Serving last dinners, crimson cold in falling snow 

Where was that holiday spirit, if not of a ghastly past? 

Among the slaughtered, mostly the old, women, and children 

No armed, red warriors to call it a fair fight 

Paying gravely for that famous, dead, civil war leader 

Where was compassion for the red man’s last stand? 

Who would long remember this homicidal day? 

Were it not for those so wrongly murdered 

Bury the last of the pale-skin human hearts as well 

Deep, darkly, among those left at Wounded Knee 



Lament For Wounded Knee II 

December 29, 1890 

Tell me, what crime have I committed 

Before you lay me to waste with your bullets 

All I have done was to be born red 

All you have done was not to be born the same 

Tell me, wasichu, what wrong is there in that 

I would rather share the pipe of peace with you 

Under the white flags of the great, white father 

In another life or time, in another day 

We could have easily been called brothers 

However, so long as your weapon grins at my gut 

I cannot swiftly say that it may one day be true 

You want to take from me what I have not taken 

Tell me what you would want if we switched places 

If you are content with that, then please, fire at will 


145

James Trask 

Destruction of the 

House of Wisdom 

In 1258 AD when the Mongols sacked Baghdad 

they destroyed the libraries, including the House of Wisdom. 

The books thrown into the Tigris, for days 

the river ran black with ink 

and red with blood. 

Across the soundless cold of space, 

Mars and the other planets remained impassive 

and moved with a steady motion 

like an old Tennessee coveite on a porch rocking chair, 

October leaves falling from the trees. 


James Trask 

Vasyl and Maria 

Vasyl lost his job at his accounting 

Firm; now he has two months to seek 

Another, changed status period between 

“You’re fired” and deportation. And not just any 

Job, but with an employer willing to process 

An H1-B visa, an occupation 

Speciality satisfying the US 

Government there’s some exceptional reason 

To allow this foreigner to participate 

In our American dream. He doesn’t want 

To go back to Ukraine, where Russian minions 

Occupy chunks of his country; Ukraine gave 

Away her nuclear deterrent and got 

Instead our promise, everlasting protection. 

*** 

Maria’s law degree was from Ukraine; 

She got another, an LLM, from Duke 

And recently passed the bar in New York State, 

But no work status: JDs are profuse; 

Some law school graduates bus tables at Chili's. 

Her job path is uphill, pushing a boulder; 

With Sisyphusian ingenuity 

And determination, she has lowered her shoulder 

And rolls her rock forward; her character 

Is sturdy, but her ascent is tied to Vasyl’s 

Visa status like an Alpine cragsman’s 

Rope; if he goes, she goes tumbling after; 

Such a burden is sloshing within his pail; 

Who would wish to don this broken crown? 


147

James Trask 

I'm Done 

It was hard to admit I was alone. 

Cattle herd, people gather, fish school 

for mutual benefit, but cast bait, hook and line 

and it’s that one that bites that gets pulled up, 

not the rest; the school creates an illusion. 

Ultimately a fish is a precise entity, an island. 

Hard to admit my country was no man’s land – 

we do not belong to it any more than it to anyone. 

The Lakota were right: European laws are lesions – 

it’s time to reschool 

ourselves, try something else, come up 

with a better way, deprogram the political line. 

Take a flat stone, throw it from the coastline 

out to sea. It is zero sum, removed from land 

which is not yours, given up 

to a seabed which is not yours, a loan 

of nothing from nothing to nothing. It’s cool, 

though, to watch it skim – its walk on water allusion. 

Throw in the whole coastline; relinquish our illusion 

of belonging. Our method of living is to line 

pockets with paper, federal promissory notes, deeds, a school 

of thought that paper gives ownership to houses, land, 

tangible things. We become possessors: ours alone, 

no one else’s. Throw the papers in, and our whole bungled up 

banking system; funny how the papers dissolve and, yup, 

the land remains, proving the illusion 

of the paper’s promise. At last unencumbered, a lone 

thinker, I see people so unaligned 


I become better by deleting their negative multiplicand, 

their voices from my ears, thoughts from my skull. 

Everyone wants my attention: commercials, ads, miniscule 

beeping things all wanting to jam a funnel down my throat or up 

some other part. I stop the flow of inland 

bound traffic, find a quiet spot away from the mass delusion, 

hear my own voice and flourish, choose a phone line 

to answer and others to ignore. I can connect; I can be alone. 

In the distance, a car alarm clangs its trumped-up illusion 

of urgency; relentless bells stampede cattle into school lines; 

tolls – collect elsewhere; I make my stand here, an island, alone. 


149

Nels Hanson 

The City in the Sea 

Dressed myself in green, 

I went down to the sea, 

Try to see what’s going down, 

Maybe read between the lines. 

“Bertha,” The Grateful Dead 

I heard a round and silver spaceship our jets 

couldn’t catch off the coast at San Diego 

dived beneath the waves where the visitors 

built a city in the sea as in the poem by Poe 

but heavenly, no hell with glass towers, and 

I took lessons, learned to dive, bought tanks, 

mask, flippers, heavy belt, chartered a boat, 

jumped at the suspected latitude, fell deep 

to a great lit sphere with two blue turrets. 

At a golden hatch like a fine hotel’s grand 

portal I pressed a scallop bell, a voice said, 

“Come in. I’ll close the door behind you.” 

Salt water pumped out, in dry clothes under 

the Teflon suit I passed a second threshold 

to a room with the spiraled high ceiling of 

a triton. At tables inlayed with abalone shell 


families dined, on seaweed, sea cucumbers 

they grow, and the woman who resembled 

a movie star I couldn’t name ushered me to 

the gleaming chair carved of a single giant 

pearl, a throne like Nemo’s on his Nautilus. 

As I sat down she asked if the world above 

remained alive and I answered, “Yes and no.” 

She smiled, said, “Rest, take food and drink, 

like all of us you’ve traveled far,” offered me 

hot greens from a fashioned conch, in a cup 

the shade of amber coral white oyster wine. 


151

Nels Hanson 

The Sorrow of Roses 

Silence deep as cliffs are high 

when a loved one leaves this world 

is muffled by screams from Syria 

staining the evening roses here. 

In Washington in a garden those 

roses too bow petalled heads 

in shame, would drip scarlet, let 

barbs swivel for a green heart. 

Instead they wait for moonlight 

turning reds and corals the liquid 

silver of baby shoes. Clipped well 

back after flower and leaf fall as 

autumn bends to winter they’ll 

stand naked for months in cold and 

snow and fare better than refugees 

who don’t believe in Spring. All 

roads lead to paralyzed October, 

frozen hands of a murdered clock, 

black page of the calendar while 

roots of roses sleep and dream 

to endure their long dormancy. 


Darren C. Demaree 


brave and sporadic shouting 

there is a black lace to all the 

diamond rings in ohio there 

are drugs without the same 

reach there is less living in 

platinum than a white opioid 

but what is living anyway be 

sober and poor with me be 

indisputable be direct and 

angry with the wealthy we’ll 

deal with the other addictions 

after we settle on a redistribution 

instead of an out and out 

buffet don’t chew on the rich 

that will only let them know 

we’re coming for them real 

steady 

it ain’t a 

choir #29 

in lieu of a whole adult life 

let us be young wolves for a 

season just think of what our 

children will witness if we 

offer no refunds from our 

teeth just think how many 

dead stars will rise to offer us 

their light if we prove we are 

of the moon 


all sleep is sad sleep rest the 

riots the riots rest i thought we 

all promised to take the capital 


153

Crystal Garcia 

Individual vs. Gov’t 

Every year I tend to grow more grateful 

although it’s usually from looking back 

on where I have been. 

I recall being locked up in a holding cell 

then moved upstairs 

to a much more 

“private” cage. 

All I ever want to do is not feel alone 

yet how I enjoy solitude— 

the guards there at county seem to 

think they can have their own attitude. 

I recall asking to be let out 

to hear a substance abuse meeting 

& the rude guard asks, “Why?”. 

I casually repeat the type of meeting 

they’re having and add, 

“Well, I would like to attend 

since that’s the reason I’m here!”. 

Obviously annoyed she came to 

let me out of my cell only so I could 

walk into a bigger type of cell with 

all sorts of wandering eyes. 

Fortunately I was let out 

not even a week later 

due to crowding 

and being non-violent. 

Indeed it seems 

the only violence I ever commit 

is against myself. 


Is this law just that takes someone 

like me and deems them a criminal 

for simply possessing a 

naturally occurring plant 

or fungus? 

I do not enjoy disrespecting 

authority however sometimes 

respecting laws means going 

against my own sense. 

Well, then it can be hard to be civil— 

it is hard to be a happy civilian 

after being labeled a criminal. 

Seeing your name go against 

your own home state is a 

different kind of unsettling. 

This seems to be a nation 

of anxiety where the more 

disturbed we become… 

the more enthralled 

the masses will be. 


155

Patricia Walsh 

Fire Alarm 

Reaching for the criminal clock 

Adjust where needed, avoiding shame 

Trying hard to act like nothing’s wrong, 

Being watched constantly is a solid curse 

Even lies are currency in this universe. 

Avoidance is pointless, staid under the microscope. 

Pinned down and writhing for a feast for the eye 

Being hung out to dry is a just punishment 

Tenacious boyfriends’ not passing notice, 

Surreptitious make-up and perfume prevails. 

Such a thing as overdressing, just for Mass 

Slighted on being one’s own, a strange brew, 

The distant disco a promise of the elders 

A blotchy photograph debates the seal 

Sitting among the over-adolescent not a big deal. 

Reading diaries at will, massacring boxes 

Of small personal items, sweets included 

Checked against hiraeth, lectured in pain 

Burned through the tiniest script, to escape notice 

Maturity a dead letter, elusive via surveillance. 

The clock works again, serving its purpose, 

Checked for accuracy, remaining in light 

A reliable cliché in the thing of the lowly aim 

Scouting for Mars bars, keeping extremities clean 

A type of funeral from slighting the hubris. 


Patricia Walsh 

Public House 

Watched, watched strangely, in the corner of a pub 

A solitary greenhouse of earthly delights, 

Coming through the ordinary time splintered 

Illuminating the corners of a dingy room. 

Respectably behaved, minding another business 

Reserving space for an imaginary associate, 

Dodging the cigarette machines, goodly trait 

Bleeding through the pipes of a gnomic situation. 

Knowing more than one knows itself, through drink 

Dodging the studied glances with an evasive eye, 

Too much literature rots the mind of its sobriety 

Inquisitive by the barmaid to a closer tee. 

But what does it mean? Decipher these jottings 

If you have the time, or inclination as is, 

Forgotten insinuations, alive if kept shut 

Conspirational murder of another conversation. 

Too racy for some, too replete for others 

Burgled heaven for an occupation at will, 

Blood on the fireplace a consternation supreme, 

The locals milling through thee space for more. 

Boycotted through a stern lesson, regretted at same 

Looking strange through dull eyes of derision 

Colluding with same with an unlikely disposition 

Finishing with a slam and a long walk home. 


157

Ken Hada 

At the Zoo 

We went to a zoo, 

stood in line before the cages, 

taking our turn – gawking 

at our brothers lazing 

around artificial wildness, 

rocks softened 

into meaningless 

obstruction, vegetation 

drooping in abstraction. 

It was eerily quiet: 

too much of not much, 

a heavy sky bending 

behind us – bars 

constraining in ways 

we fail to understand, 

consuming us – 

exchanging imagination 

with dull breathing. 


Ken Hada 

Wind 

On a January morning 

when the sun seems new, 

frost-covered cedars 

dance like lovers 

in private bliss. 

The Apostle John wrote 

about wind – an unseen, 

undeniable force. Others 

did as well – Rumi, Hafiz, 

Khayyam and Gibran. 

I take comfort knowing 

Jesus isn’t the only voice 

crying in vacant places 

at vacuous times – intervals 

of history – when a friend 

may be nebulous, ethereal. 

Truth is not something shouted 

or pursued with a sword. 

Crusades – wrongheaded – 

prevalent – still fight the wind. 


159

Laurence Musgrove 

Bandage Sutra 

I was emailing the Buddha about how far 

I am progressing in my morning meditation, 

Feeling like my posture is getting stronger 

And beginning to recognize just how my ego 

Was shaped by my father and to what degree 

My relationships with others and the world 

And with myself have been injured by it. 

He said, “Imagine your relationship with others 

And the world and even yourself this way: 

You are covered in sores, all representing 

All the ways your ego injures you and others. 

Each of these is also covered by a bandage. 

So not only are you covered in these sores, 

You are covered head to toe in bandages. 

You are barely able to move or walk or see 

Or hear or feed yourself or even breathe, 

Not because of the sores, which are healing, 

But because of the bandages hemming you in. 

Now it is time to remove these bandages, 

But you are afraid to pull them off yourself. 

You are also afraid to let others do it for you. 

Instead of looking forward to being a person 

Without suffering, you are afraid of the pain 

It takes to be free of the pain of suffering. 


Imagine also now you are surrounded by those 

You know and don’t know but who are standing 

Ready take a turn at pulling off a bandage, 

Each only allowed to remove one at a time. 

So they come forward and each asks you 

To tell them what the bandage is covering, 

And you see they love you, and you trust them, 

And you tell them, and before you know it 

The bandage is gone, and the next person 

Steps forward, and you begin again, and you 

Trust this person because you trusted the others. 

And this trusting continues until you are able 

To hold on to a kind of courage you have 

Never felt before while also understanding how 

It will stay with you forever, though you still have 

Many sores to heal and bandages to be pulled, 

Which you find yourself now pulling as well, 

Even as others continue to take their turn. 

Then you recognize how they have bandages, too. 

You ask them about their suffering, their sores, 

And before they know it, because you listened, 

Their bandages are gone, and they didn’t feel 

A thing because the pain of healing is not at all 

The same as the pain of unnecessary suffering. 

Every relationship, even with yourself, is like this.” 


161

Writing as Resilience: 

Select Pieces from WINDWARD REVIEW Blog 

COVID-19 has brought with it a complete overhaul of the systems 

we as a collective used to rely upon. These systems largely stood with only 

gradual transformations for decades. We were once able to simply live 

our lives without expecting much danger, but now some people have to 

live with fear of leaving their houses. All of this has come as an abrupt 

shock, and with all of the discourse in social media, in modern literature 

and art, it’s easy to consider an even more dreadful conclusion: is this the 

infamous third Horseman of the Apocalypse from the biblical Book of 

Revelation? 

Probably not, but times like these do have a way of revealing what’s 

really important and forcing us to think about what is of the utmost value, 

when the foundation of all else seems to be far too shaky. 

While these times are alarming, I feel there’s potent energy for a 

creative renaissance. With the new WINDWARD REVIEW Blog, we aim 

to build a space where all members of the community can freely express 

themselves, whether in prose, verse, or perhaps through other modes of 

expression. We strongly believe in creative expression as something that 

isn’t meant to be strapped down by rampant rules or by aligning with 

highly specific standards. We’re not here to tell anyone they’re not good 

enough. We desire to help feed your individual innate creativity. 

How do we navigate such a global tragedy? With creative writing 

I personally believe in finding the beauty in tragedy, without of 

course overshadowing the pain with dishonesty or platitudes. To be sure, 

we’ve been forced into isolation. We are unable to engage in our cherished 

daily rituals the way we used to. Many of us are also jobless and in the 

worst cases, we have experienced the death of loved ones. 

But without the force of creative transmutation, all we have is pain 

and confusion which would lead to the death of our human spirit long 

before it would kill our human bodies. 

As we watch these events play out—amidst concurrent poverty, racial 

injustice, and violence against other minorities—the importance of 


art becomes even more real. I believe that through writing and artistic expression, 

one embraces the power to turn something into something else 

entirely. Creativity is nothing much more than a joint endeavor between 

mind and body. In this, we can take the drastic transformations (of 2020) 

for the worse as a sign that similarly drastic transformations for the better 

are also possible. 

That’s a truth WINDWARD REVIEW aims to embrace for the 

sake of our extended community and all who wish to become a part of 

our creative force. After all, writing—and all artistic expressions—are a 

means of connecting with the facets of the self and the world that are unbreakable 

while so much else seems primed for upheaval. 

We seek for the blog itself to be a place where people of all backgrounds 

can connect over a singular passion for creativity, writing, and 

really, all art. Our greater vision is to grow in community involvement so 

as to not only house expression from our editors, but also submissions 

from the extended collective. 

With all that being said, we’ve gathered some pieces written about 

the experience of COVID-19 from the perspective of students, student-editors, 

and student-parents. These reveal how some of us were coping with 

our changing world in the early months of this crisis. 

-Celine Ramos, Associate Editor 

Visit WR blog: 

windward-review.com 

Be featured on WR Blog—send us literally anything and we'll take a look. 

Contact: windwardreviewblog@gmail.com 


163

"How Are You Doing 

with the Coronavirus?" 

By Student, anonymous 

4/3/2020 

E 

very adult in my life has asked “how are you doing with 

the Coronavirus?” I always think, it is sweet of them to inquire, 

but I wonder what they are expecting me to say. What 

could they say to make it better? There are no words that 

can comfort a mother who cannot protect her children. Even now, 

I write a line and delete it. Write and delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. 

It feels as if I am writing, asking someone, anyone to understand 

the heartbreak of the sweetest blessing being born into this unsafe 

world in turmoil. Not the regular turmoil that we all learn to live 

with, but the kind that asks a mother to choose whether she is a better 

mom for giving birth at home instead of in a hospital. Am I protecting 

my child more by going hungry or going to the grocery store? 

How can anyone but an expectant parent understand? My parents, my 

in- laws, talk of how I am doing something that “must be done,” I will 

"be okay,” and “Not to borrow tomorrow’s problems.” I try not to hate 

them for it. I know that they, even when they try, cannot imagine my 

sorrow. They don’t have the fear, still, of a new mom. They didn’t feel 

the fear of looking for their partner, the other half of this precious miracle 

and not seeing him there. They didn’t fear being kind and loving to 

their child, but still not being able to see him. They don’t feel the sting 

of head shakes and eye rolls when I worry. I am a mother too, and I am 

young, but I love my baby just as much as you, and all the moments 

that are found in scrapbooks and memories won't look the same for us. 

I wonder if I should pray. I always have before. My parents say 

that if I just pray, everything will be okay. When they say this, I 

wonder if all the victims of Covid did not pray. I don’t say anything 

because for them it helps, but for me it only scares me 


to think that although I’ve led an average life, made a baby with 

a man my heart sings for, and talked to God until my throat 

hurt, that I am not safe and neither is my child. In an act of defiance, 

I always pray in the end. I won’t let the Virus take that too. 

My haven is the other expectant families, wishing they could spend another 

nine months with their children in their bellies, protecting them, 

but wishing more that the Coronavirus would have never come. Everyday 

when I wake up at my in-laws, I wear my smile dutifully and do all the 

things a good daughter in law would, like empty the dishwasher, wash 

some clothes, do school work, eat healthy meals, talk with the family, and 

do it all without complaining about living with them attached to my back. I 

catch all my pain before it manifests on my face or in my words, but at night 

when I finally get to be alone with their son, I let him catch all the tears 

I would have wept during the day. I cry for fear, the judgement of others, 

and for my partner. During the day, neither of us can dream of bearing this 

emotion to those who do not understand, and I cry in the night often, in 

wonder of where his tears go. Who catches his tears when they fall? I sometimes 

find tissues hidden by his side of the bed, and I cry again in secret. 

Just when I think there can be no more moisture in my body, I think of those 

who don’t have any meals, let alone healthy ones. I think of those who don’t 

have an in-law's house to stay at when their own housing becomes too 

expensive without a job. I think of someone’s grandma who is still working 

at the local grocery store so she can keep her lights on at home. All over 

again, little devils dance in my head and sing their song of sadness. I’ve 

been a generally happy, lucky person throughout my life, but it is now that 

I realize that to ask us collectively to “spread positivity” (as seen on Twitter 

and Facebook) is a burden in itself sometimes. Let the collective voice of 

the human condition be of what is real and true right now, in this moment. 


165

COVID-19 Ghazals 

by Islander Creative Writers 

4/ 5/ 2020 

Trev Treviño 

Six Feet Apart 

They tell us to stay indoors, something I already do 

But then they tell us to stay more than 6ft apart 

I take no time to close the shades and binge on new shows, though 

sometimes I wish to sit next to her, the voice in my head replays: 

more than 6ft apart 

People complain that they just want to dance at the club 

I complain that home is way more than 6ft apart 

No longer have to fake reasons to cancel plans last minute with friends 

Now if only my fridge could stay way more than 6ft apart *insert fake laugh* 

Making scheduled grocery trips to search for essentials like toilet paper 

Then standing throughout the stores in makeshift passageways 

more than 6ft apart 

Now waking up in the afternoon just to go to sleep at 4 am 

Thinking on how to live day by day, more than 6ft apart 

No point for us to count the hours or the days 

Just as long as we decay more than 6ft apart 


Brittany Maxey 

Miscue Sleeping 

The Virus caught me, askew sleeping 

When I was just waking to you sleeping. 

Day dreaming vexing complications all day 

Monday turns to Tuesday through sleeping. 

No hesitations, bruised lips aching dull desire 

Less emotion, cardio vascular tissue sleeping. 

In the backdrop of global anxiety and self-destruction 

There are measures of time unaccounted for true sleeping. 

Somehow less distant now, starker moments for me to keep, 

Shifting slowly through the night, not sleeping and you are far too, sleeping. 


167

Katie McLemore 

COVID-19 Ghazal 

No more gym, no more pool, no more normalcy. 

No more food, no more crowds, no more toilet paper. 

Classes are online, and I should be enjoying sleeping in. 

Yet, it’s 6 A.M. and I’m driving to Walmart in hopes to score some toilet paper. 

Inside the stores, aisles are bare, there’s nothing left for me. 

They didn’t even leave a trace of dust or the cardboard core of toilet paper. 

I run outside since that’s somehow still allowed, and my mind begins to travel. 

After about 3 miles I stop and wonder, “Where do hoarders even store all that 

toilet paper?!” 

The sunny days now seem dark, the bleakness doesn’t help in a crisis. 

I wish those clouds would just burst already, with a heavy downpour of 

toilet paper. 

This morning I think I’ll try HEB instead, then maybe I’ll have a chance. 

But when I walk up, I see a sign posted on the door, “Limit on toilet paper.” 

During the virus outbreak, I’ve managed to gather enough to get by. 

However, I wonder when this will all be over, when will I stop searching for 

toilet paper? 

The stupid lines of tape along the ground make me want to scream. 

The empty aisle labeled “bath tissue” makes me want to roar over toilet paper. 

No more ranting, no more venting, no more writing for Katie. 

I’m sorry if reading this has been a bother, I’ll stop being a bore about 

toilet paper. 


We Are Legends: Tales of Survival 

During the COVID-19 Pandemic 

By Joseph Salinas, Cheyenne Sanchez, and Amber Robbins 

4/12/2020 

The Coronavirus. 

A new threat has taken over the globe and has caused a physical distance 

between the people we would normally see every day. Classes 

that ordinarily would take place in a physical, face-to-face setting have 

changed to face-to-screen; trips to the store are a battle ground, with 

a lingering fear that the wrong parasite targets you. Those ever-present 

public escapes, like theatres or restaurants, have closed 

their doors and resorted to hoping people will order from their homes. 

Yet, even in these times of trouble, there is strength among the people working 

together to fight this virus—with those on the front lines in health care, 

sanitation workers, store stockers, and even in the people just staying home. 

Below we have stories and tips from three editors of our team: Joseph Salinas, 

a student who wants to share his views on how this virus has changed 

our society; Cheyenne Sanchez. giving a sobering account on her life as 

someone with high -risk factors if faced with COVID-19; and Amber Robbins, 

art editor, sharing some personal solutions to dealing with the stress 

of everyday life during these times. Please enjoy and stay safe out there! 

Joseph Salinas 

One month ago, I was with my editing group reviewing submissions for 

Windward Review and preparing a plan to showcase the diverse and talented 

writers, poets, and artists of South Texas. The precipitous rise of 

COVID-19 developed in the background as we continued with our daily 

routines, with the assurance that public health officials and governments 

were taking steps to contain the virus. As I’m writing this entry, 

there are over 1,538,879 worldwide cases of COVID-19, and a death toll 

of 89,961 people. Families, on top of dealing with financial and food 


169

insecurity, are now mourning the loss of their loved ones that were taken 

far too soon. I am privileged to have food, shelter, and internet access 

at home, while hundreds of thousands of service workers keep the 

supply chain running while under the threat of contracting the virus. 

My graduating class will undoubtedly enter the job market in an economic 

depression, without any assurances that the jobs we have been 

training for will be available after this pandemic. It’s hard to imagine 

an immediate future in which bars, restaurants, movie theaters, and entertainment 

venues are open to the public. It’s precisely this economic 

uncertainty that we are left with as we progress on the upward trend 

of the pandemic curve. And with continued adherence to social distancing, 

staying home, and some good fortune, we will eventually find 

ourselves on the other side. To reach this recovery period, we all must 

do our part to follow the guidelines preventing a greater loss of life. 

The pertinent question for now, however, is our own survival. The first reports 

from Wuhan, China of the virus seemed reassuring for young people: 

if you were young and reasonably healthy, there was nothing to fear 

and the disease would pass like the flu. But with each report of young and 

reasonably healthy individuals succumbing to COVID-19, we learned that 

these reports were incorrect; our faith in our invincibility was shaken. 

Compounding the problem is that statistically, Americans are less likely 

to visit a doctor for check-ups because they simply can’t afford the bill, 

which leaves them vulnerable to underlying health conditions such as 

hypertension, pre-diabetes, and autoimmune diseases that frequently go 

undetected. And while being a part of the relatively young and healthy demographic, 

there’s an uncertainty to how my individual immune system 

will respond to the novel coronavirus, and the lingering dread that this 

pandemic will be like a war, where each of the survivors will have known 

someone—a grandparent, sibling, or a friend—who perished during 

the pandemic. I’m afraid for my parents and grandparents, healthcare 

workers on the front lines, and the older generations who are high-risk. 

And how will our mental health hold up during this traumatic period? 

These questions matter, but for now, we are confined to the spaces 

in our homes in an effort to control the spread of the virus. There is 

a light at the end of the tunnel with a tentative vaccine on the horizon, 

but for now, we are reduced to counting the days for the return of normality, 

which after this period is over, will require a new definition. 


Cheyenne Sanchez 

It’s just at the stroke of 7 PM. I’ve come back, trekking through wind and 

rain, from H-E-B. They say people like me—obese people—are some of 

the most susceptible to health complications if they contract the coronavirus. 

As a mask, I decided to make do with an old tank top, cutting 

through it to place over my airways. It was troublesome keeping it tied 

in the back with a hair claw. It was kind of hard to breathe on top of having 

to adjust it constantly, after the string broke behind my makeshift 

Kleenex mask. I had to put up with my glasses constantly fogging up from 

my breath. I wore cleaning gloves through the entire shopping trip, even 

on the bus. I’m not entirely sure of how long the virus can live on surfaces, 

so I’ve stored my outfit and the rag “masks” in a bag to wash later. 

I made the trip out of the need for my medication. Going beyond 

three days without it is when I can feel my mental health falling slowly. 

I’ve been experiencing these bursts where I get emotional at the 

smallest things: e.g, while listening to a podcast about how death is 

explained to kids; while being angry at the boomers; while getting annoyed 

at people who don’t distance themselves.; while being scared 

for my grandmother, who I love so dearly, because she is elderly and 

has had pneumonia before; finally, while thinking about if the virus 

would never leave and then the world turns into I Am Legend. 

My unmedicated wave of varied emotions includes fighting back scared 

tears when preparing to head out with the bare minimum of protection. 

Now that I’ve washed my hands, disposed of the gloves, wiped 

down my key and phone, and bagged my worn clothes, I’m typing while 

seeking physical comfort in Hot Fries and Hostess cupcakes. These 

things would earn me having to bear stern lectures from my doctors, 

but what else is there to turn to while experiencing mental instability? 

I spend most of my days falling asleep around 5 am and waking up close to 

3 pm. I spend some time still lying down and scrolling through my phone 

until I get up to for food. The only time I go outside is to get food from 

the dining hall or take out the trash. I procrastinate through Reddit while 

trying to take on the amount of strangeness that is online classwork. One 

other professor has legitimately added more work online than what we 

would have during normal lecture classes. For that same class, I have a 

book report due on Tuesday and I have barely managed to get through 


171

half of the second chapter. Quarantine furthers my already existing issues 

with concentration. On the mountain pile that is my to-do list, I add 

having to email the professor asking if he’d grant me an extension. Otherwise, 

I may have to find Sparknotes for the book in order to write about it. 

My supervisor gave us Excel projects to work on during shelter-in-place. 

The number of hours we get depends on how many sets we complete. I only 

managed to do three hours’ worth of work from my dorm. Quarantine has 

given me irregularity with work and classwork. I’ve often gotten stressed 

enough that I’ve resorted to collapsing on the bed for hours at a time. 

All of the above is basically how I’m living in the time of this pandemic. 

I’m not doing yoga, face masks, bubble baths, reading, cuddling 

with animals—all those depictions of self-care touted daily 

by Instagram. It’s hard to define what “wellness” means for me. On 

the daily, I’m mostly just ensuring I sustain myself with basic care: 

showering, making sure to brush my teeth, taking my prescribed 

medications, avoiding going outside, and keeping my clothes clean. 

With my mental health being affected, it’s become somewhat hard to fully 

invest interest in things that would usually entice me, like taking walks, 

journaling, and even watching anime. I don’t think I’ve gotten to the low 

point of merely existing, but I have gone into this weird state of dissociating 

with tasks and mental stimuli. I have these moments where I imagine 

what the day would’ve been like if the pandemic never happened. I 

would’ve had brunch. Then I would have likely taken a nap because it’s 

Sunday. If I’d had a burst of energy, I would’ve been wandering outside 

to experience the beauty of gray wet weather. I would’ve been at least 1/2 

completely through that book report. The imagining of a normal life happening, 

in a different outcome somewhere, is a sort of pipe dream to me. 

Finishing this has me feeling a bit sleepy. It’s time that I take what 

I need to stabilize, and to see when I feel okay again. Though the 

calm that came from going out somewhere brought me some ease. 

Amber Robbins 

During this time of uncertainty and chaos, as this new threat of the 

coronavirus rampages across the world, people can understandably 

be a bit stressed out. While physical health is crucial during 


these times of a pandemic, I would also argue that your emotional 

health is just as important. Along this line of thought, here are three 

tips to help ebb that stress that I’ve found to be useful in my own life. 

1, Try to distance yourself from the news for a little while. While I 

know that staying up to date during these times is very important, if 

that same information is causing unneeded stress, then take a moment 

to catch a break from it. The news isn’t going away; anything 

extremely important will still be there once you get back with a clearer 

mindset—especially in our day and age, where sharing and finding 

information is as easy as a click away and a quick search on Google. 

2, Pick up a hobby you haven’t paid attention to in a while or start one 

that you’ve been interested in. With an increased amount of time to 

spend at home while practicing social distancing, you may find a lot 

more time on your hands that you didn’t have before. I’d encourage you 

to find that activity which grabs your attention, so that boredom doesn’t 

set in after you’ve finished any work that needs to be done. Personally, 

I like to draw, but couldn’t find a lot of time for it before the pandemic, 

so it’s been nice to have this extra time for doing something I love. 

3, Find something mind numbing to relax to when things just seem 

overwhelming. I know this piece of advice may sound like heresy for 

some, but hear me out. Taking just an hour of time to separate yourself 

from your worries can do wonders on your mentality. It’s not a 

waste of your day to take some time just for yourself to let your brain 

have a break. Read a few chapters of a book you haven’t been able to 

pick up, watch some episodes of that show you’ve fallen behind on, 

or take a nap. Anything that helps you to destress can be a valuable 

addition to your day, but be sure that it doesn’t overcome your day. 

Life has certainly thrown us a curveball with everything that has 

been happening this year, but that doesn’t mean you have to let it 

get to you. I hope you find these tips helpful and please stay safe! 


173

Being Over Being Overwhelmed: 

Transitioning to Online Learning 

By Jay Janca 

4/12/2020 

If you’ve been checking your emails or at least watching the news lately, you know 

that essentially everyone has been told to stay home and everyone is trying 

to get used to life as it is now versus what it used to be. (God, that sounds 

like a line in a zombie apocalypse survival movie.) Regardless of dramatics, 

whether it be working from home or taking your classes online, everyone 

has to start from scratch in some way. 

My first thought when Dr. Miller announced that TAMU-CC would be transitioning 

to online learning was, “Oh, I did this in high school! How bad 

could it be?” If I could go back in time, I would slap myself. For some reason 

– and I swear I’m not alone in this – it feels like there’s a lot more work 

to be done online than what we used to do in class. But they deleted some 

assignments, or did they? It feels like I’m drowning in papers, presentations, 

and memes, (thank you, social media!), but before we were all quarantined, I 

was working an almost full-time job closing at a restaurant and even training 

to be a trainer. But now, I have all this time on my hands, and it’s so hard to 

find the motivation to do my work – to do the bare minimum. My mom likes 

to say that “school is my job,” so if I look at it that way, I’m doing a good job. 

However, that somehow makes me want to do my work even less. 

It’s hard to find the motivation to do things, but it helps to take things 

slow and start off with just one class, so it’s less overwhelming. Some 

people might think that the list (on the next page) is a no-brainer, but I 

have ADD and anxiety and this is how I cope with change! If you’re anything 

like me, everything is all jumbled together right now, and it feels 

like you’ve been thrown into the deep end of a pool. It never hurts to 

break things down, especially if none of the pieces make sense with 

the bigger picture. For most of us, this means forming new habits. 

Here’s what I did – and what worked: 


1. Find your professor’s new syllabus/course schedule 

• Good! Now write those new due dates down! 

2. A lot of professors moved things around on Blackboard, so become 

re-familiar with their layout for the class 

• Where are your assignments? (ie. are they under Course Content 

or somewhere else?) 

3. Repeat this (1. & 2.) with all your classes 

4. Once you have all the dates down, look at what is due soon and see if 

you can do it! 

5. Find a spot inside or outside of your house and make it your 

designated work space (if you want to be fancy, call it a home office!) 

6. DO NOT WORK ON YOUR BED IF YOU CAN HELP IT 

• Your body associates your bed with sleep, so if you try studying 

there, you might doze off or your body might start associating the 

bed with studying instead of sleep – as my body has started doing. 

• This also might transfer to your couch if you nap on it 

• If there is no other place, try to make a section of your bed the 

study space – preferably away from pillows 

• Some people say not to study in your room because the entire 

space might be associated with relaxation instead of productivity, 

but that doesn’t work for me in my house, and it might not work 

for you in your space. 

7. Try to stick with the daily routine you had before all this mess if you can 

• If not, create a new one that is structured 

• Take breaks, go outside for some fresh air 


175

• There are some apps that aid in productivity, but sometimes you 

can just set a timer for twenty minutes and work on your assignments 

• If anything, at least have a somewhat regular sleep schedule and 

drink lots of water! (#hydrate or die-drate, am I right?) 

8. Create an environment that is conducive to productivity – that makes 

you want to be productive 

• Sometimes, for lighter assignments (discussion boards, readings) 

I like to go sit outside and listen to music. My family loves to 

watch the news and it’s nice to be away from all the headlines 

• I have started doing my important assignments after my family 

goes to bed, otherwise they’d be coming in my room every five 

minutes. 

Of course, in the end, do what works for you in this uncertain time. Above 

all, make sure to take care of yourself – eat, drink water, sleep, and take 

breaks as you need them. Be kind to yourself and others now, as being socially 

distant doesn’t mean we can’t be social in other forms. 

As for me, I’m going to be working on my books, trying new hobbies, and 

figuring out what things I can control in this situation, and what is out of 

my hands. Catch your breath and reach out to others when you need help. 

And help others when they reach out to you. 


Parenting 

Through a 

Pandemic 

by Natalie Williams 

4/24/2020 

It started with, “Don’t worry, it’s on 

the other side of the world. Nothing 

to fear.” 

Next came, “The virus is here but 

we have it under control. They will 

be quarantined and are no threat to 

your health.” 

Then, “There may be a slight health 

risk. Simply wash your hands and 

stay 6 feet away from others. Everything 

will be fine.” 

It was 10 sick, then 100, and now 

it is impossible to keep track from 

hour to hour. Schools institute an 

“extended” spring break before the 

inevitable suspension. Kids are 

ecstatic while parents sit quietly, 

terrified. 

As if worrying about my children’s 

health and safety wasn’t stressful 

enough, now I am also their teacher. 

All the while, like most, I'm still 

working a full-time job as well. 

And I am one of the lucky ones. Many 

people have been forced to choose 

between a paycheck or being home 

to teach and watch their own children. 

Even more haven’t been given 

a choice and instead, have been laid 

off until further notice. My job is construction 

equipment and it has been 

deemed essential. This means we get 

to stay open and also that I still go into 

work everyday. While I am constantly 

grateful for a job and a paycheck, this 

current situation has proven more difficult 

than I imagined. 

Homeschooling a preteen and teenage 

kid (when an adult is not actually 

able to be present during the day) has 

proven arduous. The teen has been 

left to his own devices, yet is given 

constant reminders that his work ethic 

now will be setting him up for the 

rest of his life. The preteen, however, 

requires a bit more guidance—understandably 

so. Some days he comes 

to work with me, but most days are 

spent with constant texts checking in 

and phone calls to discuss issues with 

school work. 

The first week that they were home 

with us, things went pretty smoothly. 

Good weather meant the youngest 

could go outside to ride his bike and 

play with the dogs once school work 

was done. 

As the weeks progressed, things have 


177

gotten slightly less smooth. Trying to 

get kids to read “for fun” instead of for 

an actual assignment is like pulling 

teeth. I took steps to make sure it was 

something that they wanted to read. 

We researched books on certain topics 

and read reviews. Vampires are a 

win with the preteen. I'm still working 

on the teenager. 

The rainy days are the worst. Literally 

nowhere to go and nothing to 

do. Those days I have found that 

documentaries (in subjects of their 

choosing of course) can make the 

day pass without too much boredom 

setting in. 

Then, inevitably, I start to worry about 

their development. “Are they doing 

enough? Am I expecting too much? 

Should they be waking up at 8 everyday 

even when no one is home and 

there is nothing to do?” 

“Kids are resilient,” they say. “Don’t 

worry too much.” But the guilt is real. 

And the overcompensating when 

home from work is exhausting: feeling 

the need to keep the house clean 

because a teacher may see the messy 

counter in a Zoom call; wanting to 

cook a healthy, home cooked meal 

after a day of work and school because 

no one is sure if take-out food 

is even safe right now. These are just 

a few of the ways I have found myself 

overcompensating for not being home 

with them during the day. 

Add to that the pressure from 

social media to "make the most 

out of this trying time". Plastered 

all across my phone are DIY projects, 

mountains of baking recipes, 

hours of at-home workout 

videos, and photos of piles of 

books that have been read. And 

yet for me, the last thing I want 

to do with any of my sacred free 

time is clean my fridge or organize 

my closet. Everyone talks 

about how this pandemic is forcing 

us to slow down, but for me 

I'm racing around more than ever 

with nowhere to actually go. 

I have discussed all these questions 

and concerns with many 

friends, a few of whom are 

teachers. Speaking with the 

teachers has definitely helped me 

see the situation in a new light. I 

have learned a lot from them and 

would like to share some tidbits 

with you. Hopefully they help 

you as much as they have helped 

me : 

1) The fact that you are asking 

these questions means that you 

care, and that tells me your kid 

will be just fine. 

2) We are simply trying to avoid 

brain rot, not create the next 

Einstein. When the kids go back 

to school, most everyone will be 

in the same boat. Teachers are 


not expecting a lot, they are just 

hoping the student’s brains stay 

somewhat active so that they can 

jump right back in at the beginning 

of the new school year. 

3) These crazy times are hard on 

your kids too. Let them be kids. Ease 

up on the rules a bit. Let them have 

a “lazy day” if they are not feeling 

up to the school work one day. Give 

them grace, and while you are at it, 

give yourself grace as well. 

4) Use this situation to spend as 

much quality time as possible with 

them. As much as we may be driving 

each other crazy because of 

all the extra time spent under the 

same roof, find ways to have fun. 

Baking, movie nights, poker games, 

and long walks with the dogs are 

some of the things we have been 

implementing to make sure we get 

in that quality time. 

I was talking to the youngest recently 

about everything that was 

going on. He said he missed some 

of his friends, but he could talk to 

them on the phone and even play 

video games with them. Then I 

asked him how he felt about the 

new arrangement for school work 

and his answer surprised me. 

“Great!” he said, “Homeschooling 

is fun! Plus, we get to spend so 

much time together as a family" 

More time together as a family. 

Maybe, just maybe, that is the point 

of all of this madness. 

5) TALK to your kids about how 

they are feeling. Let them know 

that you understand how different 

and difficult things are for them 

right now. Be their safe space. You 

might be surprised at what they say. 


179

Notes from the Frontlines of 

Kinder and Elementary Level 

Parenting Through Pandemics 

by Amanda King 

5/13/2020 

I thrive on routine. I’m a real type-A person, a firstborn with a control streak 

half a mile wide. I do not thrive on chaos; I like to put chaos down on a list 

to be checked off in an orderly fashion. I like the idea of the creative process, 

but its unwieldly nature stresses me out. So, in my early twenties I did that 

counterintuitive thing so common to humans: I dove into a life that would 

have me butting up against my limit every day for the rest of my life: I, 

mess-averse control freak extraordinaire, birthed two children, bought a 

warped old house that seeps dust, and adopted two very hairy dogs. Did I 

mention that everyone in my household is attention-deficit? 

Especially the dogs. 

Nothing spells fun like a challenge, right? I try to keep the floors clean. I 

usually fail. Sometimes I cry about it. But still, it’s glorious. 

That’s not to say it’s not hard. Having kids is hard. Having kids and trying 

not to fight the messiness of growing and learning is hard. Having kids and 

not trying to fight the absolute madness of anxiety-bred hyperactivity, as 

everyone is cooped up at home, is excruciating. 

The thing is, I have it really easy, and I still find myself gritting my teeth 

and crying, stomping around the house and sighing, drinking one too many 

cups of coffee and manically ranting. I have two daughters, and although 

you’ve heard about how other people’s kids are cool, mine are really fantastic 

and it is still hard. Right now as I type this I’ve been interrupted thirty or so 

times for dire events like thirst or boredom or that powerful need that drives 

children to be observed by their parents for no reason whatsoever, especially 

if their parents are concentrating on something unrelated to parenthood or 

child-rearing. 


My biggest complaint before this pandemic was that I didn’t have enough 

time to spend with my children. I was working full time and taking classes 

full-time, a combination that I wasn’t handling particularly flawlessly, even 

though I loved both my job and academic life. Even though I grew up in 

the home-and-unschooling world, where education was highly prized if 

not traditionally conducted, I knew that I didn’t want to dedicate my 

career to educating my kids, excellent as that job may be. As of March 

2020, both my daughters were enrolled in school: my eldest daughter at 

a Montessori charter, the youngest in a traditional public kindergarten 

until she could join her sister’s school in first grade. 

And then Spring Break. And Extended Spring Break. School closures for 

April. Part of May? Just kidding, school will be closed for the remainder of 

the year. Forget normalcy: I was furloughed. All of a sudden I was a stayat-home 

mom, a position I have sometimes jokingly, sometimes jealously, 

dreamed of. 

It’s only been four weeks as of this writing, and already it feels like a lifetime. 

We’ve grown tomato plants, established daily yoga routines, set up a 

mountain of school supplies on a nearby table so that glitter glue is always 

close at hand. I, along with half of America, nurtured a sourdough starter 

(delicious). We set up rock candy experiments and discussed the molecular 

makeup of sugar. 

Even though I lost my job, my spouse kept his, which meant I didn’t have 

to worry about where our next meal was going to come from (this is good, 

because kids at home eat all day, every day. Meals, and the snacks between 

meals bleed gently into each other into a daylong buffet of sliced apples 

and snack bars). 

We settled into our first week of routine, scrapped it, started a second, 

then decided it was no good, and then carried on. A real routine is on the 

horizon, or maybe it’s just a mirage. Who can say? 

There’s nothing like a pandemic for stripping the imagination. 

There are so many things I can barely conceive of, because every new 

adjustment is taking all of my coping mechanisms. We wear our handsewn 


181

masks on walks around the neighborhood with our dogs, and our breath 

is hot and labored when we run, the relief when we untie the coverings 

immense. How do medical professionals do it all day? After six straight 

hours of gently redirecting one child on spelling homework and another 

on dot-to-dots (seriously, though, kindergarten work plans are a joke: I 

want to just let her roam and eat dirt and finger paint her name against 

the side of the house and call it a day), I wonder how the hell do working 

parents do schooling with their kids? 

It took me days to navigate the unemployment website, not because it was 

all that difficult to figure out, but because it was so overloaded that I kept 

getting kicked off—and every time I did I would move on to some other 

task, economic uncertainty hanging over my head like a cloud. What if 

I was single? How do single-turned-no income households even do this 

right now? 

I don’t know. I only know how I am handling things, and the answer is: 

unevenly. 

I am now an expert on the uncertain. If my plans for the day fall to pieces, 

I’m slowly learning not to sweep everything into the bin and retreat in 

high dudgeon to some corner of the couch. That privilege is unavailable. 

I am instead slowly and painfully learning to construct new and interesting 

shapes out of the slivered portions of my ambitions. My failures outstrip 

my successes, endlessly. I am not as smart or dedicated or resilient or 

brave as I wish I was. But I am, above everything, an optimist. 

As I was scrubbing bathroom cupboards this week, I listened to an 

episode from the podcast This American Life: Ira Glass invited Esther 

Perel, the famous psychotherapist and relationship guru, onto the show’s 

most recent episode (title: Black Box), to talk about how our relationships 

have been affected by this pandemic. She discussed the strain, the heightened 

tensions, the couples that have been broken and saved by this time. 

The host, Ira Glass, asked Perel who was doing better? What were the people 

who were treading water doing? What did they look like? 

Here’s what she said: “Who does better? [It] is the people who think, what 

can I learn here? What is this telling me about what actually matters in my 

life, or what I really want to do’ --and becoming more aware of things.” 


I’m not doing better because we are doing crafts or sticking to a work plan 

or exercising every day. It’s true that our coping mechanisms are more 

capable and elastic if we get enough sleep and eat the occasional 

vegetable, but there is no foolproof way to cope. This pandemic has set 

basic truths in high relief: those of us who stay curious and treat life as 

a learning experience are very likely more able to adjust to the weird, 

hard, distressing bits. It is even more true during this season: awareness, 

reflection, self-investigation are way more useful than making sure 

everyone has had a bath. 

Although baths are important. In sweaty south Texas, baths are VERY 

important. 

I think that we stand a chance of getting through this thing if we 

recalibrate our desires: from individual desires to collective needs. From 

strict self-imposed routines to more fluid, flexible things. Dole grace with 

a heavy hand. Ask forgiveness. Give it. Stay curious. 


183

Being a 

Parent-Teacher-Student 

During Covid-19 

Quarantine 

by Aric Reyna 

5/24/2020 

Parenting 7 days a week 

during mandatory quarantine 

is an occupation in 

itself. As a parent of four 

who’s a full-time student, with a full 

time job, this task feels almost unachievable. 

Considering the many 

challenges I have encountered in 

college, I somehow managed to 

maintain success in my educational 

career. As these unforeseen circumstances 

continue to take their toll 

on our community, I have learned 

more about the balance of time and 

effort that it takes to self-teach my 

children at home while also upholding 

my own status as an operative 

student of a university. 

At this moment in time, the world 

is in a strange place. COVID-19, or 

coronavirus, has officially changed 

life as we know it. Large groups 

and face-to-face interaction are no 

longer permitted. As parents, we 

recognize that ensuring the health, 

safety, and well-being of our children 

includes the responsibility of 

progressing their education. Since 


most parents put their child’s 

needs before their own, it is necessary 

that these circumstances 

call for a strong sense of self-awareness, 

self-discipline and self-sacrifice. 

My family of six lives in a three 

bedroom apartment; four kids, 

my wife, and myself. I have been 

reduced to working two days a 

week at my job and my wife has 

been furloughed until further 

notice. Time at home has 

drastically increased and is of 

the essence. Here, every minute 

counts. Things that would’ve 

normally been done in the real 

world now have to take place 

in the uncomforting comfort of 

the home. One word of advice 

for staying on track would be to 

stick to a consistent schedule. 

My morning routine consists of 

waking up somewhere from 4:30 

to 5am, so I can get a head start 

on my own studies before anyone 

else wakes up. This is the only 

time of day that I feel like I am 

most effective as a student. Don’t 

get me wrong…I love my family 

more than anything in the world, 

but that is probably why they are 

my biggest distraction. One thing 

that I like to do is take my laptop 

outside and work from my 

front porch. Studying early in 

the morning when it’s still dark

and working till the sun comes 

up gives me kind of a surreal 

feeling. Considering the solitary 

presence of a pandemic that is in 

the air, it feels as if I am the only 

one in the world that is awake. 

Our "classroom" usually takes 

place in the living room. By this 

time, I’ve already found a stopping 

point in my own studies. 

Keep in mind, my studies never 

really end, they are just placed 

on pause until I am able to pick 

them back up again. Subject 

matters in our home range from 

Pre-K to 6th grade. This means 

that I could go from watching 

a read aloud of Pete the Cat to 

multiplying fractions in an instant. 

It’s been quite some time 

since I graduated high school. At 

that time, I had no concern for 

my own educational well-being. 

I struggle with simple Math because 

I was never really good at 

it in the first place. In addition 

to my own struggles with learning, 

“learning strategies” have 

changed completely from when 

I was a grade school student. 

It’s a constant battle of trying 

to show my children the way 

I learned versus the way they 

are currently learning. But, this 

is only the beginning of many 

demanding trials, the greatest 

challenge of all is trying to keep 

their attention away from what 

one another is doing. I attempt 

to separate them with space (as 

would be done in a normal classroom 

setting) but our apartment 

living room is just not big enough 

to create the necessary area to 

mitigate one classroom of four 

different grades. Self-teaching everyone 

at once is complicated 

because it is difficult to perceive 

our kids as students. I’ve come 

to the reality that the feeling 

is mutual; our kids really don’t 

take us seriously as teachers. 

As a parent, I stress the importance 

and value that education 

can bring in my children’s lives. 

When this whole COVID-19 

situation is behind us, the biggest 

takeaway that I would like my 

kids to have is that their parents 

cared enough to continue educating 

them when they needed it the 

most. Although this unexpected 

situation has forced us into unorthodox 

learning measures, we 

must not lose sight of what we set 

out to do in the first place. As a 

student myself, I will always make 

the effort to set the example for 

my family to strive for greatness 

for the sake of our own education. 

They have seen me struggle with 

it, and they have seen me succeed 

because of it, but one thing they 

will never see me do is giving up 

on it. 


185

I think I can speak for everyone 

when I say that the coronavirus has 

affected our lives in ways that we 

never would have imagined, but 

we shouldn’t let it affect us to the 

point of hopelessness. Remember, 

you are not alone. Although everything 

that has happened to us 

in the last couple of months was 

completely out of our hands, we 

must know at this time that everyone 

is facing troubling circumstances, 

but it is how we overcome 

these unpredicted obstacles that 

defines our strength and resiliency 

as parents, teachers, and students. 


CONTRIBUTOR'S 

NOTES 

Elyssa Albaugh is a poet 

currently located in South 

Texas, where she directs, 

writes and teaches whenever 

she can. She believes 

that kindness comes above 

anything, and that truth 

and honesty will always follow. 

She is excited to share 

her work, and continues to 

grow as an artist everyday. 

Jeffrey Alfier’s most recent 

book is The Shadow 

Field, a collection of poems 

set in overseas locations, 

published by Louisiana 

Literature Press (2020). His 

publication credits include 

The Carolina Quarterly, Copper 

Nickel, Midwest Quarterly, 

Permafrost, and Southern 

Poetry Review. He is co-editor 

of Blue Horse Press and 

San Pedro River Review. 

Patricia Alonzo is currently 

an Online Writing 

Consultant at TX A&M 

University-Corpus Christi 

(TAMUCC). She has both 

a Master of Arts degree 

in English with a focus in 

Texts, Cultures, and Communities; 

and a Bachelor of 

Norma Barrientes: "I am a retired teacher. I 

have enjoyed art and writing throughout my 

years. My father was a craftsman and always 

encouraged us to use creativity in all things. My 

mother was a seamstress that was very creative 

and later became an artist while I was in high 

school and I enjoyed all her attention to detail. 

My brother used his creativity with many accomplishments 

by using his hands in craft in 

many mediums and music. My sister continued 

the pursuit and is now is an established seamstress 

, artist and muralist using many mediums. 

I have been participated in the Texas Mental 

Health Creative Arts Contests, Ageless Art 

with the South Texas Museum of Art, Humana 

Community Art & calligraphy Sessions, Corpus 

Christi Libraries community art activities for all 

ages, Lindale Senior Recreation Center weekly 

Art Sessions, Zavala Senior Recreation Center 

Art Sessions, Purple Door Assault Survivors 

Awareness Campaigns: An Artful Journey; joint 

effort with Corpus Christi Public Libraries and 

K Space Contemporary. Several of my paintings 

have been on display at Ageless Art Exhibit at 

the South Texas Museum of Art and at La Retama 

Library for Latinos Unidos Exhibit, Chicas 

Bonitas Exhibit, and Purple Door Assault 

Awareness Campaign Exhibit. A few of the 

pieces have been for sale in the Art Project of 

Corpus Christi: Totally Texas at Nueces Brewing 

Company, the Lindale Senior Fallfest, and 

at La Retama both for the Latinos Unidos and 

Chicas Bonitas exhibits . I participate with My 

sister has when she holds Serendipity Style Art 

classes in local homes. I use watercolors, acrylics 

and coffee when I paint. I also knit and crochet 

and mount pieces on canvas. I have also 

done collages and various lettering such as calligraphy 

on some of the compositions. I enjoy 

participating in community efforts promoting 

art such as the mural at the YWCA. I continue 

to search for opportunities to contribute to 

causes to bring fulfillment to my retirement." 

Arts degree in Spanish with an emphasis in English from TAMUCC. She also has 

an Associate in Arts degree from Del Mar College (DMC). Patricia has acquired 

20 years of experience from TAMUCC and DMC in helping students with their 

writing. 


187

Jacob R. Benavides is from Corpus Christi, born and raised, and is currently 

earning an undergraduate degree in English (Literary Studies). They have a passion 

for creative writing, painting and literature. Get in touch: jbenavidez12@islander. 

tamucc.edu, Instagram@jabejohnson 

Alan Berecka resides in Sinton, Texas. He earns his keep as a librarian at Del 

Mar College in Corpus Christi. His work has appeared in such places as American 

Literary Review, Texas Review and The Christian Century. He has authored three 

chapbooks, and four full collections. In 2017, he was named the first poet laureate 

of Corpus Christi and served in this post until 2019. 

Karen Cline-Tardiff has been writing as long 

as she could hold a pen. Her works can be seen 

in several literary magazines and websites including 

Nowhere Poetry & Flash Fiction, Tuck Magazine, 

Unlikely Stories, and The Dead Mule School of Southern 

Literature. She founded the Aransas County 

Poetry Society. She has a Kindle book of poetry, 

Stumbling to Breathe. She is the Editor-in-Chief of 

Gnashing Teeth Publishing. Get in touch: www. 

karenthepoet.com 

PW Covington lives and writes in the beat tradition 

of the North American highway. He has had 

his work featured at the Peoples Poetry Festival 

and has been named a Juried Poet at by the Houston 

Poetry Fest. In 2019, his collection of short 

fiction, North Beach and Other Stories was named 

a Finalist in LGBTQ Fiction by the International 

Book Awards. Follow him on Instagram @BeatPW. 

Kevin Craig is a first-year student at Colby College 

in Waterville, Maine. A QuestBridge scholar, 

Kevin is studying History and Global Studies. 

Kevin is active with both mock trial and debate 

and continues to write. His work has been published 

in Outside Colby, a politics magazine, and he 

continues writing creative works independently. 

Their writing explores the intersection between 

politics and daily life with an awareness of key 

issues being a primary goal. His inspirations are 

Taylor Swift, Charli XCX, and Carly Rae Jepsen 

for the story telling in their song lyrics. 


Jacinto Jesús Cardona is a 

San Antonio poet who grew 

up in Alice, the Hub of South 

Texas. He is a Gemini Ink 

Voz de San Antonio Champion, 

and his poem “Bato 

Con Khakis” was selected as 

a performance piece for the 

NYC Symphony Space. He is 

the author of the poetry collection 

Pan Dulce and is an 

English teacher at Incarnate 

Word Highschool. 

“My name is Ianna Chay 

and I ought to adopt a dog 

and finally buy a tripod but 

I currently do not have a job. 

I'm a first year student at 

TAMUCC, who is working 

towards a major in Art and 

a minor in Creative Writing. 

When I'm not scribbling 

random things down 

on whatever may be around 

me, I'm working on my photography 

or performing concerts 

in my bedroom.” 

Jerry Craven has lived for 

extended periods in Southeast 

Asia, South America, 

the Middle East, and Europe. 

His published books 

include collections of poetry, novels, and collections of short stories. He lives in the 

Angelina National Forest with his wife, poet Sherry Craven. Currently he serves as 

press director for Lamar University Literary Press and editor for the international 

literary journal Amarillo Bay. He is a member of the Texas Institute of Letters and 

Science Fiction Writers of America. His writer’s website is www.jerrycraven.com, 

where images from his 2020 art show"Magical Realism" can be found.

Founder of Concho River Review and member of the Texas Institute of Letters, 

Terry Dalrymple writes fiction, gardens, and takes photographs. He 

is recently retired from the Department of English and Modern Languages 

at Angelo State University. His published books of fiction include Dancing 

on Barbed Wire (co-written with Andrew Geyer and Jerry Craven), Love Stories 

(Sort Of), Salvation, and Fishing for Trouble. 

Holly Day’s poetry has 

recently appeared in Asimov’s 

Science Fiction, Grain, 

and The Tampa Review. Her 

newest poetry collections 

are In This Place, She Is 

Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic 

Press), A Wall to Protect 

Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch 

Publishing), Folios of Dried 

Flowers and Pressed Birds 

(Cyberwit.net), Where We 

Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds 

Publishing), Into the 

Cracks (Golden Antelope 

Press), and Cross Referencing 

a Book of Summer (Silver 

Bow Publishing), while 

her newest nonfiction 

books are Music Theory for 

Dummies and Tattoo FAQ. 


is the author of thirteen 

poetry collections, most 

recently So Clearly Beautiful 

(November 2019, Adelaide 

Books). He is the 

recipient of a 2018 Ohio 

Arts Council Individual 

Excellence Award, the 

Louis Bogan Award from 

Trio House Press, and 

the Nancy Dew Taylor 

Award from Emrys Journal. 

He is the Managing 

Editor of the Best of the 

Net Anthology and Ovenbird 

Poetry. He is current 

-ly living in Columbus, 

Ohio with his wife and 

children. 

"My name is Katie Diamond. I've been a 

resident of Corpus Christ my whole life. I am 

a Junior at Collegiate Highschool. When I'm 

not singing, watching Netflix, or hanging out 

with my friends, I love to write creatively." 

Chris Ellery is the author of five poetry collections, 

most recently Canticles of the Body 

and Elder Tree. He has received the X.J. Kennedy 

Award for Creative Nonfiction, the Dora 

and Alexander Raynes Prize for Poetry, and 

the Betsy Colquitt Award. A member of the 

Texas Institute of Letters, Ellery teaches literature, 

creative writing, and film criticism at 

Angelo State University. 

Margaret Erhart’s work has appeared in 

The New York Times, Christian Science Monitor, 

Best American Spiritual Writing 2005, and 

many literary magazines. She won the Milkweed 

National Fiction Prize, and The Butterflies 

of Grand Canyon (Plume), was a finalist 

for an Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. 

She lives in Flagstaff, Arizona. Margaret welcomes 

responses and conversations at www. 

margareterhart.com 

Crystal Garcia is a Corpus Christi native 

who graduated in 2012, although she strives 

to continue her education by being a student 

of life. She is a lover of books and all things 

literature—especially poetry. Crystal and 

her brother, Rudy Garcia, co-created a local 

podcast, Revolve One (revolveone.com). The 

desire to create a platform to better connect 

with the community didn't stop with the podcast 

however! Crystal and Rudy also co-host 

quarterly held open-mic Poetry Nights. Initially 

originating from wanting to connect literature 

and poetry with mental health, Crystal 

accompanied by her brother and podcast 

partner, continue to be advocates of mental 

health in their local community and abroad. 


189

Sister Lou Ella Hickman is a former teacher 

and librarian. Her poems have appeared in 

numerous magazines such as America, First 

Things, Emmanuel, Third Wednesday, and new 

verse news. As well, her work is in four anthologies: 

The Night’s Magician: Poems about the 

Moon, edited by Philip Kolin and Sue Brannan 

Walker; Down to the Dark River, edited by Philip 

Kolin; Secrets, edited by Sue Brannan Walker; 

and After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery for 

Life-Shattering Events, edited by Tom Lombardo. 

She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 

in 2017. Her first book of poetry, she: robed and 

wordless, was published in 2015 (Press 53). 

"My name is Mackenzie Howard. I was a 

senior at Bishop High School when I won a 

Robb Jackson Memorial High School Poetry 

Award last year. I am now a sophomore 

at the University of Missouri-Columbia. I 

am a double major in Animal Sciences and 

Psychology. I hope to one day go to Veterinary 

school to become a Veterinary Behaviorist. 

I believe that anyone can be a poet, 

no matter what their interests may be. I 

love writing poetry and short stories about 

how I am feeling and how I perceive the 

world. My other interests include archery, 

soccer, painting, crafting and photography." 

Penny Jackson’s poems and stories have 

appeared in The Pushcart Prize Anthology, 

The Edinburgh Review, The Croton Review, 

Real Fiction, StoryQuarterly, The Ontario Review 

and other literary magazines. I have 

received a MacDowell Colony Fellowship, 

The Elizabeth Janeway Writing prize and 

other honors for my writing. www.pennybrandtjackson.com 

Andrew Geyer’s ninth book, the story cycle Lesser Mountains (Lamar University 

Press, 2019), won a 2020 Independent Publisher Book Award (IPPY) for U.S. 

South - Best Regional Fiction. His other individually authored books are Dixie 

Fish, a novel; Siren Songs from the Heart of Austin, a story cycle; Meeting the Dead, 

a novel; and Whispers in Dust and Bone, a story cycle that won the silver medal 

for short fiction in the Foreword Magazine Book of the Year Awards and a Spur 

Award for short fiction from the Western Writers of America. He is the co-author, 

with Jerry Craven and Terry 

Dalrymple, of the hybrid story 

cycle Dancing on Barbed Wire. 

Geyer also co-authored Parallel 

Hours, an alternative history/sci 

fi novel; and Texas 5X5, another 

hybrid story cycle from which 

one of his stories won a second 

Spur Award. He co-edited the 

composite anthology A Shared 

Voice with Tom Mack. 

Ken Hada is the author of seven 

collections of poetry. Ken 

enjoys public readings, and his 

work is published in a variety of 

journals. Ken directs the Scissortail 

Festival at East Central 

University. More at: kenhada.org 


is a Louisville, KY native who 

migrated to Corpus Christi, TX 

with his family. Between Kentucky 

and Texas, he has traveled 

and lived in several places, including 

Spain, Appalachia, Panamá, 

Peru, the Philippines, and 

the Colorado River. He has published 

a chapbook, Slow Wind, 

with Finishing Line Press, and 

has poems have appeared in Voices 

de la Luna, Driftwood Press, Noble/Gas 

Qtrly, Windward Review, 

and The San Antonio Express. 

Nels Hanson grew up on a small 

farm in the San Joaquin Valley 

of California. He has worked as a 

farmer, teacher and contract writer/ 

editor. His fiction received the San 

Francisco Foundation’s James D. Phelan Award and Pushcart nominations in 2010, 

2012, 2014 and 2016. His poems received a 2014 Pushcart nomination, Sharkpack Review’s 

2014 Prospero Prize, and 2015 and 2016 Best of the Net nominations. 


Rossy Evelin Lima (August 18, 1986 Veracruz Mexico), holds a PhD in 

linguistics and is an international award-winning poet. Her work has been 

published in numerous journals, magazines and anthologies in Spain, Italy, 

UK, Canada, United States, Mexico, Venezuela, Chile, Colombia and Argentina. 

She received the Poet of the Year Award by The Americas Poetry Festival 

of New York (NY, 2018), the Premio Internazionale di Poesia La Finestra 

Eterea award (Milan, Italy, 2017), the International Latino Book Award (USA, 

2016), the Premio Orgullo Fronterizo Mexicano award by the Institute of 

Mexicans Abroad (USA, 2016), 

the Premio Internazionale di 

Poesia Altino award (Venice, 

Italy, 2015), and the National 

Gabriela Mistral Award by the 

National Hispanic Honor Society 

(USA, 2010), among others. 

She is the president and 

founder of the Latin American 

Foundation for the Arts, the 

founder of the International 

Latin American Poetry Festival 

(FeIPoL), as well as the founder 

of Jade Publishing. In 2015, she 

was invited to speak at TEDx- 

McAllen to talk about her experience 

as an immigrant writer 

in the U.S. In 2020, her poetry 

book Aguacamino/Waterpath 

was translated to Serbian and 

published in Belgrade. You can 

find her work and books on her 

website, www.rossylima.com 

Rob Luke is a graduate of the 

M.F.A. in Creative Writing Program 

in Minnesota State University, 

Mankato. He teaches 

English at Delano High School 

in Minnesota. He lives on Lake 

Minnewashta, near the town of 

Excelsior, Minnesota, with his 

wife, Sara. 

Laurence Musgrove is a writer, 

editor, and teacher. His books 

include Local Bird – a poetry collection, 

One Kind of Recording – 

W.D. Mainous II works as a tutor and also 

in healthcare. He lives in Edinburg Texas, 

and believes that poetry can be used as a 

social platform. 

Eliana Martinez was born in Corpus Christi, 

TX. After moving around some, she is back 

where she started. Destinced to go back to 

her roots, Eliana visits her parent's house every 

weekend to remind herseld that it is more 

than okay to live without her siblings now. Eliana 

studied at Tuloso-Midway High School 

and is currently studying at TAMUK. 

Don Mathis’ life revolves around the many 

poetry circles in San Antonio. His poems have 

been published in a hundred anthologies and 

periodicals and also have been broadcasted 

on local TV and national radio. In addition to 

poetry, he has written policy and procedures 

for industry, case histories for psychological 

firms, and news and reviews for various media. 

A sampling of his work can be found at the 

Rivard Report and the Good Men Project. He 

can be reached at dondon213@hotmail.com 

Ash Miller spent over two decades growing 

up along the Coastal Bend. Their writing ranges 

from the absurd to the sincere. They love to 

explore storytelling in different mediums, from 

the written word to zines to creating interactive 

text-based games. Now residing in San Antonio, 

they are involved in local queer activism 

through serving the San Antonio Gender Association 

(SAGA) and other local organizations. 

a volume of aphorisms, and The Bluebonnet Sutras – Buddhist dialogues in verse. He 

received his Ph.D. in English from the University of Oregon, Eugene, and currently 

teaches at Angelo State University in San Angelo, Texas. He offers workshops on the 

Buddhist wisdom tradition, drawing-to-learn, and the causes of beauty in poetry. 

Additionally, Laurence is editor and publisher of TEJASCOVIDO, a new online literary 

and arts journal for writers and artists responding to the COVID-19 pandemic. 


191

"My full name is Jose Alejandro Olalde Bustos. 

I was born in Mexico and moved to the U.S. at the 

age of ten. I began writing poetry when inspired by 

authors like Wislawa Symborska and John Keats. 

The first poem I ever wrote was for a person I began 

dating; however, as our relationship crumbled in the 

incredible span of a month, I found a comfort in portraying 

my emotion through poetry. From there on, 

other topics arose. My best work so far has been Candela: 

my minds allegory in nine stanzas." 

Born and raised in Houston, Texas, Clarissa M. Ortiz is a 

dedicated writer, artist, educator, and independent curator. 

Now based in Corpus Christi, where she earned her Bachelor 

of Arts at Texas A&M University Corpus Christi, she is 

currently pursuing a Master's degree in Museum Studies 

through the Harvard University Extension School. She also 

enjoys working with the Art Museum of South Texas as an 

Outreach Coordinator and art instructor, developing lessons 

for students at all levels, ranging from youth programs 

to an exciting "Ageless Art" project for senior citizens. Her 

personal creative endeavors employ a variety of different 

mediums and continually fuel her passion for finding new 

ways to share and inspire appreciation for the arts. 

Born and raised in Mumbai, India, Sunayna Pal moved 

to the US after her marriage. She devotes her free time 

to writing and Heartfulness meditation. Learn more: 

sunaynapal.com 

Juan Manuel Pérez, a Mexican-American poet of indigenous 

descent and former Poet Laureate for Corpus 

Christi, Texas (2019-2020), is the author of several books 

of poetry including a new book, SCREW THE WALL! 

AND OTHER BROWN PEOPLE POEMS, forthcoming 

from FlowerSong Books. The award-winning poet, history 

teacher, and Pushcart Nominee, is a founding committee 

member of the People’s Poetry Festival. He is also 

a member of the Horror Writers Association, the Science 

Fiction Poetry Association, and the Military Writers Society 

of America. Juan worships his Creator and chases 

chupacabras in the South Texas Coastal Bend Area. 

Michael Quintana received his MFA in creative writing 

from San Jose State University. He’s the founder and developmental 

editor of Script Journey, a script and story consultation 

service that helps writers develop their written projects. 

He’s won various writing awards, including the prestigious 

CSU Media Arts Festival’s Rosebud Award in 2014 for feature 

screenwriting. He currently resides in Corpus Christ, 

TX where, alongside fellow writer and friend Sarah K. Lenz, 

he assists in the development of The Writers’ Studio. 

Victoria Phillips’ 2019 

readings include the Langdon 

Review Weekend, the 

Mellow Daze of Summer 

concert series, Vermin Supreme’s 

Cirque du Pone, 

the Underground Arts 

Festival, and readings at 

The Forge in Ben Wheeler. 

In 2018, she performed 

“Sisters of Courage,” in 

collaboration w/Charlotte 

Renk and Claire Phillips 

Latham, at TACWT and 

Langdon. Victoria also 

served as poetry coordinator 

for the Underground 

Arts Festival in 2018, with 

guest artist Michelle Hartman. 

Past publications 

include Writing Texas, Rio 

Review, theywhosearch, 

and Lake Country Gazette. 

Teaching experience includes 

college English, 

adult education, community 

literacy, and private 

tutoring. Contact Victoria: 

vphillips.lcot@gmail.com. 

Ciara Rodriguez is a 

freshman at Del-Mar 

College completing 

her basics but she will 

transfer to Texas State 

U. for Anthropology 

when her basics are 

finished. She dreams of 

living in Australia when 

she finishes college. 

Her poem, "Hey mom, 

Hey dad", is about how 

she felt during her parent's 

divorce. She would 

like to thank her Creative 

Writing teacher 

Belinda Covarrubiaz 

for pushing her to be 

the best writer she can 

be and having her submit 

this poem. 


Xavier Angelo Ruiz is a young, outspoken, and self taught writer who is currently 

a sophomore in high school. He wrote his poem, "The Way of the Seasons", 

as a freshman in highschool , and used it as a way of analyzing and interpreting 

thoughts and ideas that may have been too complex to understand at that moment 

in time. Xavier often relates his writing abilities to his abilities as an actor. 

He uses both platforms to express himself freely in beautiful and artistic ways. 

Although Xavier is young, he knows that as he grows, his love for writing will 

never fade. 

Jesse Sensibar's work has appeared in The Tishman Review, Stoneboat Journal, 

Waxwing, and others. His short fiction was shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction 

Award and the Wilda Hearne Flash Fiction Prize. His first book, Blood in 

the Asphalt: Prayers from the Highway, was published in 2018 by Tolsun Press 

and shortlisted for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. Find him @ jessesensibar.com 

Jamie Soliz: “If only I had a lore 

to my life, like how Buckethead 

is a no face guitar player who 

was raised by chickens. My birth 

name is Jamie Lee Soliz and I 

am a senior at Collegiate high 

school who is personally educating 

themselves in the world of 

film and theater. I wish everyday 

could be a Wes Anderson scene, 

I wanna have conversations like 

the guys from Clerks, and I wish 

I could be as mentally stable as 

Woody Allen in Annie Hall.” 

JE Trask: James's poems have 

appeared or are forthcoming 

in Mudfish, The Windward Review, 

The Heartland Review, Best 

Austin Poetry and elsewhere. In 

2020, he was the recipient of 

awards from the Austin Poetry 

Society and the San Antonio 

Writers’ Guild. He is an MFA 

candidate at Texas State University, 

a veteran, and a recovering 

MBA holder and corporate minion. 

His poems explore the loss 

and reclaiming of the emotional 

self; new, dead and revolutionary 

Romanticism and intuitive 

imagination. 

Joseph Wilson taught Senior English 

Advanced Placement, Film Studies, and 

Creative Writing at Richard King Highschool 

for 42 years. He created and edited 

the art and poetry magazine, Open 

All Night, for 40 years. His work can also 

be found in Corpus Christi Writers 2018, 

Corpus Christi Writers 2019, and Corpus 

Christi Writers 2020. He writes poetry. 

Educated as a scientist and graduated as 

a mathematician, Harlan Yarbrough 

has earned his living as a full-time professional 

entertainer most of his life, including 

a stint as a regular performer on 

the prestigious Grand Ole Opry. Harlan’s 

repeated attempts to escape the entertainment 

industry have brought work 

as a librarian, physics teacher, syndicated 

newspaper columnist, and city planner, 

among other occupations. He lives, 

writes, and continues to improve his 

dzonkha vocabulary and pronunciation 

in Bhutan but visits the US and Europe 

to perform, and thereby to recharge his 

bank account. Harlan has written five 

novels, three novellas (two published), 

three novelettes (two published), and forty-some 

short stories, of which thirty-five 

have been published in six countries. His 

work has appeared in the Galway Review, 

Indiana Voice Journal, Red Fez, Veronica, 

Scarlet Leaf Review, Green Hills Literary 

Lantern, and many other literary journals 

and has won the 2019 Fair Australia Prize. 


193

Andrena Zawinski’s flash fiction 

appeared or is forthcoming in Flashes 

of Brilliance, Unlikely Stories, Summer 

Shorts Anthology, Digital Paper, Panoplyzine, 

Beneath the Rainbow, Short Stories 

& Poems Weekly, Ginosko, Pretty Owl, 

Oye Drum, Sabr, Loud Zoo. Many of her 

stories appeal to the LGBTQ community 

of which she is a part of. She has 

three full poetry books and six smaller 

collections in print. Born and raised in 

Pittsburgh, PA she is a veteran teacher 

of writing and an avid feminist who 

has made her home in the San Francisco 

Bay Area, where she runs a Women’s 

Poetry Salon and works as Features editor 

for NJ based PoetryMagazine.com 



195

Elyssa Albaugh 


Patricia Alonzo 


Jacob R. Benavidez 

Alan Barecka 

Jacinto Jesús Cardona 

Ianna Chay 

Jerry Craven 

Karen Cline-Tardiff 

PW Covington 

Kevin Craig 

Terry Dalrymple 

Holly Day 


Katie Diamond 

Chris Ellery 

Margaret Erhart 

Crystal Garcia 

Andrew Geyer 

Ken Hada 


Nels Hanson 

Sister Lou Ella Hickman 


Penny Jackson 


Rob Luke 

W.D. Mainous II 


Don Mathis 

Ash Miller 

Laurence Musgrove 

Jose Olalde 



Clarissa M. Ortiz 

Sunayna Pal 





Jamie Soliz 

James Trask 

Joseph Wilson 

Harlan Yarbrough 

Andrena Zawinski 

“I’ve seen too much in life to give up.” -Al Sharpton 

$15.00 

ISBN 978-0-578-82761-2 

51500> 

9 780578 827612

Windward Review

Create successful ePaper yourself

Delete template?

Save as template?