MSR Summer 2003
Available July 1Features:
David Slavitt
Interviewed by Okla ElliottA Market Researcher Asks for Your Help
by Sean O'LearyFiction by Scott Jagow and D.A. Taylor.
Reviews by David Chorlton, Jen Hirt, Frank S. Palmisano, III, Rich Ristow, Sherri Smith, and Bill Wesse of the following work:
Christening the Dancer by John Amen, What Calls Us by David Bengston, Arrow Pointing North by David Dodd Lee, Museum Mundane by E.V. Noechel, Hard by Nancy Henry, Emergences and Spinner Falls by Robert Haight, The Palace of Ashes by Sherry Fairchok, The Fifth Ramone by Kevin Zepper, Man in a Suitcase by David Plumb, Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh, Sweet Fire by Pat MacEnulty
Poetry by Laurie Lico Albanese, Miriam Axel-Lute, Joe Bacal, Joan E. Bauer, Henry Berne, Andrew Bradley, Clare Brown, Sally Buckner, Matthew A. Cavellier, Carol Crawford, Colin Aaron Dodds, Rod Farmer, Marie Griffin, Nancy Henry, Laverne Frith, Carol Frith, Arthur Gottlieb, Janis Greve, Mike James, Robert K. Johnson, Michael Kriesel, Karen Lodge, Pat MacEnulty, Leslie F. Miller, Cecil Morris, Flynn C. Murphy, Tanya Olson, Robert L. Penick, Rich Ristow, Daniel Saalfeld, Janet St. John, Kale Sevron, Tom Skove, M. Garcia Spring, Laura Stamps, Sampson Starkweather, Ryan G. Van Cleave, Lawrence Welsh, Don Winter, Lee Clark Zumpe
Cover Art by Michael Swisher.
Photographs by J.R. Holmes and Jason Lee Brown.
Scott Jagow
Charlotte, NC
HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN
Dixon checked his watch as he pulled into the I-95 rest stop. The darkening clouds swelled and collided, devouring the orange sky like a blanket pulled over his head. Damn, he hated these North Carolina ice storms. Driving in them was hell. He’d rather it just snow. If the storm would just hold off a bit, he’d make it home in time. If not...
Suzanne would be pissed. She’d be more than pissed, especially after what happened last New Year’s Eve. But shit, he had a little time to spare. Besides, his bladder and his nicotine addiction were in control now.
“Dinner reservations at eight. Don’t you dare show up late again.”
Suzanne’s words froze in his mind as Dixon locked his Volkswagen and made a beeline for the restroom.
Men in baseball caps stood three-deep behind the urinals. Dixon loosened his tie and dug his hands into the pockets of his slacks to relieve some of the pressure. Hot, stale air filled his nostrils.
“Carolina ain’t got no chance in hell,” said a man with a tobacco farm drawl. “They can’t run the ball worth a shit.”
A man in a Georgia hat replied, “Yeah, but the Bulldogs’ run defense sucks. They hadn’t stopped nobody this year.”
When it was finally his turn, Dixon smiled a wide, peaceful grin as he relieved himself. He ran his hands under the tap and dried them on his trench coat on the way into the lobby. He checked his watch again, cursing as he counted change to buy cigarettes. Almost five o’clock.
He was unwrapping the pack outside when he looked up and saw the dog. She was lying on the pavement behind his car, one paw crossed over the other. Dixon popped out a cigarette and approached with slow steps. About the size of a lab. Gray coat. A mutt, maybe? Then he saw the eyes. Bluish-green, like Gulf water, and sad. He had never seen such sad and beautiful eyes on an animal. When he reached the dog, the eyes turned upward, questioning him.
“Go on, get,” Dixon answered, stamping his foot. “I gotta get home.”
The dog didn’t flinch. She just lay there, looking pathetic and scolded. Dixon reached down and stroked her behind the ears. Such a smooth coat. Such a pretty pup. But where was her tag?
“Aw, come on, don’t give me that look.” Dixon rubbed the scruff of her neck and enjoyed the feel of it for a moment. “Alright. That’s enough.” He stuck his hands underneath her rib cage to hoist her up. But halfway, he let go and stepped back, gasping and covering his mouth.
“Oh my God,” he said, kneeling down for a better view. It appeared one of the dog’s hind legs had been snapped off like a branch from a tree, a little above the joint. The area was ragged with hair and bone, dried up and scabbed over. An old wound. Definitely not the work of a careful veterinarian. His stomach felt queasy as he stood up. He fumbled for his matchbook, his hands quivering in the cold. He lit the cigarette and scanned the parking lot for signs of the owner. People were coming in and out of the visitor’s center, but no one even looked in his direction.
Want the rest of the story?
The conclusion can be read in the Summer 2003 issue which is still available direct from MSR for $7 at
The Main Street Rag Bookstore.BACK TO TOP
David Slavitt
Cambridge, MACAIN*
I’m not the deplorable fellow you take me for.
Don’t be so sure, so quick to judge. Think,
at least for a moment. What did I do? It says,
“Cain rose up against Abel his brother and slew him,”
but where before that can you find that this was forbidden?
I hit him. To use the fancier word, I smote him,
but…who knew about death? Of animals, sure,
but were we animals too? It’s still a fair question,
and it wasn’t at all clear at the time that people
could also die. So “smiting” is what I’ll plead to,
and even for that, I can claim I had good reason.We’d brought our gifts to Yahweh, he and I,
mine the fruit of the soil, because I was a farmer,
and his a lamb—a terrible thing to do.
To take an innocent lamb and cut its throat
for no good reason? Disgusting. You don’t do that.
(Or to be precise, you don’t do that anymore.)
But Yahweh approved of the gift of this bloody carcass,
and mine, the fruit of my labor, the fruit of the field,
He scorned. He spurned. What kind of god does that?
Unfair, and also wrong. And I was embarrassed
for God’s sake as much as anything else,
and stared at the ground—that earth which I had tilled
and on which I’d raised my crop that He’d just rejected.
And Yahweh had the nerve to scold me and yammer
all kinds of nonsense—sin and lust and the need
for self-control. What sin? I’d come with a gift!
What lust? You have to wonder sometimes if Yahweh
is right in the head, which is what I said to Abel—
who could have agreed or at least kept quiet. A brother
owes a brother that much, but he told me how God
had spoken, and preened and put on airs. A brother
can be, as some of you know, a great pain in the ass.
He pissed me off, and I picked up a rock and, yes,
smote the son of a bitch, to let him know
how the poor lamb must have felt to let him consider
how much or little his God’s approval meant.
If God made me, this is how He made me,
rational, so that I know what’s right and fair,
and, when I’m wronged, hotheaded and even violent.
I am not ashamed. And when Yahweh sent me away
to the land of Nod, to wander east of Eden,
it would be a lie if I said I was sorry to go.*from Falling From Silence (LSU Press, 2001)
Leslie F. Miller
Baltimore, MD
RUBBER TREE
Poor leaf,
alone and shriveled,
still clinging to its branch,
a sad old man hunched over a cane,
waiting for word that it’s time
to let go.
Word came for this leaf, I think,
word as wind, word as snow and time,
word as January rain.
A tough leaf to be sure.
We walk through slush,
the dogs and I,
the rush of the Herring Run
beside us,
the tragic fall leftover ahead.
We take pity and a long stick,
prepared to help it down,
where its brethren have left
their ghostly stains on the cement bridge.
As we near, we see not leaf,
but sheath,
newly misspent and left to dangle,
the white flag of surrender,
the bookmark of a conquest
holding the page in this wood.
Clare Brown
Bronx, NY
UP IN THE SOUTH BRONX
Up in the South Bronx
men give all they got
a kiss, a giggle
a roll of the dice
luck crashes
losing what they never had
on a cold pavement
in the other hand a colt 45
shielded in a brown paper bag, anonymously
but everyone knows.
What else is there to do up in the South Bronx--
small towns
big cities
as spit forms
from the corners of their mouths
aspire to be--
somebody--
but what--
Up in the South Bronx--
American ghettos
big boys play
in Jordan’s sneaks
in baggy jeans
shattered dreams
mouths that reek
of a useless being
worthy of being--
the dice rolls on
lands hard
killing time
killing dreams
up in the South Bronx.
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