 Untitled, by Manolo Millares (Spain) 1963 Entitled "Isn't it rich Are we a pair? Me here at last on the ground, you in mid-air... Don't you love farce? My fault, I fear, Losing my timing this late in my career..." Stephen Sondheim, Send In The Clowns The black and white cross on canvas is Untitled, mixed with burlap's rough texture, splotched with red -- enough blood, it was said by Lorca, to equal 300 roses; or sangre spilled in the Spanish Civil War. In the mountains between Madrid and Segovia, Robert Jordan's horse is shot from beneath him, and dying, he says goodbye to Maria, his memory of the grass where their bodies were entwined taken with him though his life must end in Hemmingway's fiction. How near the lyricism of life is that of death: Lorca shot by Franco's Fascist firing squad in Viznar, Spain the words of his gypsy ballads lingering -- Green I love you greenly, and green the branches. Dali and Gala were already in exile for safety; they begged their friend, Lorca to flee...but Robert Jordan was dying, firing on the enemy; and Maria -- young -- was left clinging to passion on the mountainside, entitled to have what they had shared, if briefly, on an unknown road into the future, days when the earth could have been sparsely foliaged -- summer-bare as it was when we drove to Granada. There, in a moment of amazing beauty the barren landscape was surprised by The Alhambra -- its fountains an oasis, a Wonder of the World (1 of 7 the guidebook said) yet the sight of it was so much more than words.... In my heart, I'd grieved for Lorca, his fascination with the gypsies of his homeland a living pulse of life ...could such entitlement be ours when we could no longer be together as the water from a fountain cast a curl of diamonds; and Lorca's simple "Song of The Rider" was my song as I sat beside you -- my husband who wasi driving; and Lorca seemed so near on his black pony the moon fat and full, his saddlebags filled with Spanish olives; and for us, do you remember how precious were our children, ripening with love and life -- Laurie Newendorp Laurie Newendorp lives and writes in Houston. The beauty and surreality of Lorca's words have long been a source of poetry she finds inspirational as in the first poem in her book, When Dreams Were Poems. Robert Jordan and Maria were Hemingway characters who meet during the Spanish Civil War in For Whom The Bell Tolls. ** Skinny and Flimsy Work Horse, Almost Always Full of Bruises Don Quijote called her Rosinante. Cervantes said: “He gave him this name because he thought it was the most appropriate for a gentleman.” And there rode the hidalgo Alonso Quijano, reader of romances of the chivalric sort, who imagines himself the caballero who is about to fight evil and defend his patria, his fatherland, with the help of SanchoPanza, his ignorant sidekick. And so Alonso Quijano becomes Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight in shiny armour, the only one who will fight the giants with the flailing arms. Salvador de Madariaga is telling us of the "Sanchifaction of Don Quixote and the Quixotizsation of Sancho Panza." Oh, would this be so today, when Rosinante has to carry two poor deluded souls battling windmills, and probably riding the poor beast to death. Giants of your mind Elongated lances Dead horses Rose Mary Boehm Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was several times nominated for a Pushcart and Best of Net. Her eighth book, LIFE STUFF,has been published by Kelsay Books (November 2023). A new manuscript is in the works. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/ ** ‘Til Then, Dear Girl: a Sijo Sequence I. We will scratch a legacy across this teardrop tender sky, fighting our oppressors armed with our resentment, fury, and hate, defending freedom with the truth, as our mothers would have wanted. II. Standing tall, standing proud, standing at the edge, we will rage resistance Psalms and blare death metal ballads of peace, giving and taking hits easily after all this abuse. III. There are people who never seem to rise to anything at all. Others only know how to hurt for their own greedy benefit. Some are hurt so much that they themselves learn how to hurt others well. IV. Be wary of them all, dear. Each poses their own unique threat, And no matter what they tell you, you are good and worthy and true. So, we will defend you, just as generations before did us. V. ‘Til we are predictably battered, wearing our black and blue proud. ‘Til they have bloodied us as red as Eve allegedly did. ‘Til we waltz and we two-step and we salsa across these men’s graves. Rose Menyon Heflin Rose Menyon Heflin is a poet, writer, and visual artist in Madison, Wisconsin, born and raised in rural Kentucky. She has had over 200 poems published on five continents, and her poetry has won multiple awards. One poem was choreographed and performed by a dance troupe, and an ekphrastic creative nonfiction piece was featured in the Chazen Museum of Art’s Companion Species exhibit. Her poetry has appeared in Deep South Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Salamander Ink Magazine, San Antonio Review, and Xinachtli Journal (Journal X). An OCD sufferer since childhood, she strongly prefers hugging trees instead of people. ** Rancher's First Date After a Long Time My heartline and lifeline cross just here inside my glove, even if y’can’t see, or which one forks off–small splinter trickles away like the Colorado, won’t reach the Gulf anymore. I drank that water as a kid, splashed through troughs, rain ran down our backs, flicked off our eyelashes. Best soaking, a deluge, drops raced each other below, between shale and bedrock right here at our feet. I swear I could feel earth rumble above the water filt’ring– –sounded like traveling across cattle guards at night with a truck full. We’d drill wood slats to the door where pushing was worst and get on board –wore ear buds for the noise–head to slaughter god knows where since they closed the yards at KC, until we’d release ‘em under flood lights –bawling, stumbling in dirt, through the chutes. I stayed once after auction, told my little girl I’d watch where they went, keep ‘em safe. Has her own kids now, my bloodline, six generations. After the sale, they'd be done slippin' and fallin' on the concrete, hangin' over drains, drippin' so fast –rain like that could recharge the Red. Blood smells like mined lead, y’know, sweet, so thick it’d make you sick, if y’let it. At least the cow excretions get hosed out first. Toughest gloves come from cattle. I won’t touch sheep leather. Too soft. Cowhide takes time to wear in but can take a beating day in, day out, somethin' you can count on. Lynn Axelrod Lynn Axelrod's poetry appears in various journals and outlets; is anthologized; was featured in the San Francisco Chronicle; and is in a collection of the James Joyce Library, University College, Dublin. Her first chapbook, Night Arrangements, earned a Kirkus Review "Get it" verdict. Her second, Lotus Earth on Fire was published in 2024 by Finishing Line Press. She's been a community organizer for disaster readiness, reporter for a weekly newspaper, studio jewelry maker, environmental NGO staffer, and a lawyer. ** Blood-Bird Man The figure looms over Enrique, blood-bird wingspan stretched over him from a white and black robe. Protection or condemnation? Death-inhaler or death-exhaler? Enrique doesn't know which, and he is too ill to care. Eyeless skulls stare at him. He wants to chuckle, for how can a hollow where an eye once was be capable of stare? Or is each of these crevasses an abyss in the fabric of life through which he must now pass? He hears mumbles of an ancient tongue he cannot comprehend. Blood-bird man presses on his chest with the lightness of feathers. Enrique’s breathing quickens at first and then relaxes into a lullaby rhythm his mother might once have hummed. His pain dissipates. All that remains is the melody of breath and the flapping of wings. He falls into a deep sleep. When he awakes, the village shaman announces, “He is well!” The shaman’s robes are now all white. The ground is littered with red feathers and black rags. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse. Her work has also appeared or is forthcoming in The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen's Quinterly, Nimrod, Cimarron Review, Paterson Literary Review, and other journals. Visit her website at barbarakrasner.com. ** Death Was Different Then Death was different then, more approachable. We could call him down if we needed to, and I did. The writing was on the wall; after days of seeing skulls in every rock’s shadow, I knew which way I was headed. I went out dressed for Death in my best burlap-- in the old colors he knows-- chalk-white and clay-red and the black of tarpits and aurochs-- drew X’s to mark my spot (nice and obvious; I was only doing this once). Take me, take me, I said, but in Death’s language, which at that time was common (and easy enough, monosyllabic), and opened my arms wide for his embrace, and just like that, he was at my back, like a wind, like a wish, like a wailing bird, lifting me up; I never saw his face. I heard a sound like the ripping of a great fabric as he tore me away from the earth-- I still hear it. Amber Burke Amber Burke grew up in North Dakota and graduated from Yale and the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars. Now she teaches writing and yoga at UNM-Taos. Her creative work can be found in magazines including The Sun, Quarterly West, and Swamp Pink. Her yoga writing appears in Yoga International and Yoga Journal. ** Painted Moth It was flying around that evening Attracted to the table lamp light Set up to give a pale white glow As I was spray painting a canvas With acrylic creams and browns As an untitled abstract impression Capturing a mood I’d felt all day A confused moth, fluttered past Straight across my line of sight Spattered with paint, it tumbled As if shot down by ack-ack fire Landing clumsily upon the table Now static in the lightbulb glare Clearly in shock and unmoving With paint drying over its wings Almost now an alien camouflage Hidden patches on a muddy field Yet providing me new inspiration My artwork with an altered view Howard Osborne Howard has written poetry and short stories, also a novel and several scripts. With poems published online and in print, he is a published author of a non-fiction reference book and several scientific papers many years ago. He is a UK citizen, retired, with interests in writing, music and travel. ** Hidden Beneath Here below turbulent waves deep In the depths, a great beast floats Dark blue water camouflaged, a true Dennison of the deep: whale, shark? Echoes of human manufacture- a sub? Nearly invisible, painted blood red Brine can’t wash away memories of ships Entering fishing grounds, scaring life till None can survive the empty sea, under waves Ebbed in tides, no place left to hide from Attacks, harpoon and net, can never forget That humans are a danger to all sea life Hidden beneath, the plight just to survive Julie A. Dickson Julie A. Dickson write poetry from prompts including art, nature and music. Her work varies between life and teen issues, environment and memories. Dickson's poems appear in over 70 journals worldwide, including Girl Goddess, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien and The Ekphrastic Review. She has served a a guest editor on several publications and as a past poetry board member. ** Manolo's Vision Etched deep into the angled edge of the mountain's sheer rock face - two long bones, the white plate of pelvis, an ochre red smear tinted by some ancient plant or berry: history of violence. In Altamira, sketched men run on stick legs, arms extend into spears, sharp deep strokes in the charcoal walls of the cave, bison flee, fall: the same ochre red patches of blood: ancient history of violence, of survival. Laura L. Hansen Laura Hansen is a Stevens Poetry Manuscript Prize Winner for Midnight River. Her most recent books are The Night Journey: Stories and Poems published by River Place Press and Waiting Rooms: My Breast Cancer Journey in Poems. Laura is a former Independent Bookseller who is passionate about the power of words to convey and connect. She is a Summa Cum Laude graduate of Concordia College in Moorhead, MN and has attended workshops at The Loft Literary Center, Madeline Island School of the Arts and elsewhere. Laura's other passions include whiskery dogs, life by the river, reading and puzzles. ** Baba Yaga’s[1] Winter Forest In these woods my hut balances on the feathered talons of owls. Men roar past on oil-fed contraptions, stain the snow black. My hut realigns itself, agile as the barred owl hunting among the trees and as silent. My camouflage is birch bark siding. Only the deer know I am here. They taught me how to find the vanishing point. Showed me the lone woman. The other women stick to the road, gobbling in flocks like the turkeys. Sometimes the turkeys scrabble round my house for beetles and beech nuts. The one that plumps my stew pot isn’t missed by the clucking flock. They don’t know the spell for silence. The lone woman sidles close on webbed wooden feet when the drifts are soft. I don’t feed the fire so there’s no smoke. Huddle by the cooling stove. Even the Pileated woodpeckers flatten their red crests, black and white blending with the birches. The woman seeks me in her dreams: wants a spell to save the trees. Last summer the wind boiled a funnel cloud through my forest, snapping trunks of burly maples, muscled blue beech. Like twigs. Tore the feathered capes of White Pines. Scattered bird nests. Eggs, shards of blue sky, leaking. That wind had iron teeth and claws. I burrowed into the river bank, lived with the kingfisher all summer. The woman’s dreams haunt me: she found a blue feather from a shadow jay on the snow. Like Lucy of the candle crown[2], she wanders the forest path on the longest night, searching for her lost sight. I told her to gouge out her eyes so she would always walk in darkness. I hide beneath its heavy duvet. If the lone woman finds me I will eat her heart. Kate Rogers [1] Baba Yaga is an Eastern European forest witch from ancient Slavic myth. [2] St. Lucy is a saint of Nordic countries. Unlike most saints, she does not have her own day, but does have a night. At ceremonies the young woman chosen to be Lucy wears a crown of candles. She is believed to bring back the light. Some Lucy stories describe how she gouged out her eyes to discourage a suitor. Kate Rogers won first place in the subTerrain magazine 2023 Lush Triumphant Contest for her five-poem suite, “My Mother’s House.” She is co-author of the chapbook Homeless City with Donna Langevin. Kate’s latest poetry collection is The Meaning of Leaving. She is the Director of Art Bar, Toronto’s oldest poetry reading series. More at: katerogers.ca/ ** Flatout Sacked A not-so-subtle exhale. Like seeing the coin toss flop from its edge. Like the replay of your favorite quarterback crushed under three-hundred pounds of defensive tackle. Not even bones--ribs, knuckles-- retain shape. The Xs and Os. Mostly the Oh’s turning gray. The blood-red of the midfield logo permanently smashed into the flank. All that’s left after the last whoosh--the exiting puff of life-giving breath, the extinguishing of light and memory--is one unblinking eye. Todd Sukany Todd Sukany <[email protected]>, a two-time Pushcart nominee, lives in Pleasant Hope, Missouri, with his wife of over forty years. His work has appeared in Ancient Paths, Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal, Cave Region Review, The Christian Century, Intégrité: A Faith and Learning Journal, and The Ekphrastic Review. Sukany authored Frisco Trail and Tales as well as co-authored four books of poetry under the title, Book of Mirrors, with Raymond Kirk. A native of Michigan, Sukany stays busy running, playing music, loving three children, their spouses, seven grandchildren, caring for two rescued dogs, and four rescued cats. ** Bloodletting after we abandoned our preordained selves I couldn't remember your face. a decade of painting portraits, and then you, the negative space. when we were children they told us Jesus was stumbling to Calvary under the cross and a woman broke from the crowd to wipe his brow with her veil. later, blood marked the cloth in his image. after we met again I tried to claw you from the red dark behind my eyes. the parish priest carried me from the sacristy— my son, you have been blessed. he kissed the boreholes in my face before leaving me on the cathedral steps. he said he would tell you where to find me, but once his psalms had finally corroded I felt my way up to the apse and you fell from me in hymns and clots and hallowing rust. Lalini Shanela Ranaraja Lalini Shanela Ranaraja makes art in a wilderness of places, most recently Katugastota (Sri Lanka), Rock Island (Illinois) and the California Bay Area. She has written about defiant women, red-tailed hawks, best beloveds, mothertongues and luminous worlds for The Ekphrastic Review, Wildness, Hunger Mountain, Strange Horizons and others. Discover more of her work at www.shanelaranaraja.com. ** A Raw Poetics What is this animal Manolo that stalks your canvas pushes past the frame walks its awkward limbs towards me as if something must be accounted for of what did you dream in that café with Tapiés those hours exchanging notes on cardboard scraps in your scrawling écriture some new aesthetic a raw art discard of rules of tone or touch conventions even of beauty even Goya was not enough you headed instead to alleyways a collector now burlap tar rope sand torn jute you sewed into whole cloth scumbled with your gesture primal disquieted your viscous clumps of paint weighing heavy upon that animal a raw poetics you said to salvage the dark of history bear witness to despair but oh how history repeats repeats repeats itself Manolo the relentless beat of a drum your animal walks its awkward limbs towards me as if something must be accounted for. Victoria LeBlanc Victoria LeBlanc is an artist, writer and curator. She has contributed to over 50 publications on contemporary Canadian artists. As a visual artist, she has participated in solo and group exhibitions across Canada. Recent poetry collections include Hold (2019) and River | Riven (2024), the latter accompanied by the exhibition A path walks quietly on its own. www.victorialeblancart.com ** Untitled, No Date A milch cow, flayed, left hanging from a wall Where thick black dust’s cut open with a scrawl Not much unlike a swastika, although Death’s possibilities are endless. so Just call it what you like: Pandora’s box; Life-saving drugs left rotting on the docks; Earth’s creatures used and starved, hung out to dry: A prize for dicing soldiers by and by; For we in all our godly zeal require A living testament to knife and wire, A sacrament of blood, a sacred cow Slaughtered to prove sheer wealth is holy now. Does art do this? Picasso shook his head. I’m not to blame for Guernica, he said. Ruth S. Baker Ruth S. Baker has published in a few online magazines. She has a particular love for animals and visual art. ** I make peace with my ghosts i all I ever got was glimpses, there in the corners of my life - after-images, haunting as skulls, ghosts of other existences sometimes they hinted at spilled blood, theirs and others, often it was about black dirt thick like loam, corrupted, and there was ash, so much ash leaving dirty smears on crumpled white sheets that spread like waves, like wings ii when the ghosts stopped appearing I felt hollow, deserted - had I just imagined the words of those whispering voices? those conversations with them had mattered even when it felt like touching cobwebs and shadows, my mind's hollow echoing was I really just making them up, talking to past versions of myself? had I warped the rough fabric to make it fit my own needs? iii when they'd first appeared I yearned for silence from the ghosts not realising how much I'd miss them when they were gone as the absence grew I looked, I searched, I pored over signs I realised how much they'd become part of me, our shared history now I have my own story of why they came, why they had to leave I am at peace with my version of them. They leave me alone Emily Tee Emily Tee is a writer from the UK Midlands. She particularly enjoys ekphrastic writing and has had pieces published in The Ekphrastic Review challenges previously, and elsewhere online and in print. ** To Manolo Millares Regarding Untitled How apt that jute would be avowed as fit embrace of final shroud to keep the worst of beasts at bay from lifeless flesh as feasts of prey and threats to those who left survive by reason not to be but thrive and also leave their conscious thought as skill and conscience better wrought to destine aim becoming course, triumphant even in remorse, that leaves its mark on darkened walls as proof of hope in cryptic scrawls that you revere in jute again connecting is to long has been. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Prefers to craft with sole intent... of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment. Ekphrastic joy comes not from praise for words but from returning gaze far more aware of fortune art becomes to eyes that fathom heart. ** Cowed When your artwork is abstract or surreal, people bombard you with questions. What is it? Why did you paint it like THAT? Do you make any art that is, you know, PRETTY? Potential buyers go nuts when I don’t title a painting. (I do in my head, but they get in the way of sales.) Most of my audience is mystified why I would specialize in cow art. I don’t tell them I grew up on a dairy farm. I fell in love with cows, but hated the matter of fact attitude of my parents and brothers. Four years truly isn’t the natural life span of a cow. I fell apart every time one of our Bessies or Buttercups disappeared from our barn. Mama wanted me to skip college and work at the dairy. She wasn’t about to pay for more schooling. So what did I do? I approached an abstract artist. He moved to our farming community to paint in peace. I offered to assist him by stretching canvases, answering phones, doing what I could to help. In exchange, he paid me minimum wage and taught me most of what I know about art. It didn’t hurt that I’m a decent cook either. He even let me squeeze in classes at the local art institute. It wasn’t long before I was noticed. My artist was kind to mix my canvases with his in the gallery. I began to make money, win contests, and best of all, bought my own small pasture/summer workshop space. Three or four sweet cows get to live out their full lives with me and a colony of cats. See that russet blot on this canvas? That belongs to my Millie. No cows are ever harmed in the name of art. Alarie Tennille Alarie Tennille was a pioneer coed at the University of Virginia, where she earned her degree in English, Phi Beta Kappa key, and black belt in Feminism. She has now lived more than half her life in Kansas City. Alarie received the first Editor’s Choice Fantastic Ekphrastic Award from The Ekphrastic Review, and in 2022, her latest book, Three A.M. at the Museum, was named Director’s Pick for the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art gift shop. ** Building Bridges, Not Walls I. burlap noun : a coarse heavy plain-woven fabric usually of jute or hemp used for bagging and wrapping and in furniture and linoleum manufacture [Merriam-Webster.com Dictionary] II. Worn by the prophets in solidarity with the suffering, sackcloth served as a metaphor for God’s work. III. Incorporated within the paintings of Millares, it symbolized the persistence of the human spirit, represented the resilience of humanity. IV. Like the prophets and artists before us, will you build bridges, support all people in the figurative weave and unity of burlap? Jeannie E. Roberts Jeannie E. Roberts is a Midwesterner with roots in Minnesota and Wisconsin. She is the author of several books, including The Ethereal Effect - A Collection of Villanelles (Kelsay Books, 2022). On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing is forthcoming from Kelsay Books (2025). She is an Eric Hoffer and a two-time Best of the Net award nominee. She finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones. ** Collage: chalk on blackboard, paper bags, dark chocolate, and the red paint risk of disapproval In Adam's world of quantum physics, observation can bring things into being. Like us. I observed him at the grocery store where I work, gently bagged his peaches as I rang him through. He noticed me at a coffee shop downtown and waved. In the park, we discovered we both had golden retrievers. I said, "Your Niels Bohr is cute." He said, "Your Goldie is cuter." After that, we laughed and touched, and when we began the silly "You hang up first."—"No, you hang up." I moved in with him. It's been a month now. None of my friends and family know. "Cindy, you are in a superposition," says Adam one night in bed. "You and I will not change other realities." Realities like Marg and I, Elliot and I., my daughter Tessa and I. "It'll be plus, not minus." I kiss him for that. He kisses me back. "Tell them I have a quantum property called strangeness." No, they won't get it. What will they get? That forever-single Cindy is cohabitating (Adam's word) with a professor of physics, a science man from the fancy-schmancy university on the hill. Adam says, "Hypothesise. How might your family react?" Marg. My bestie for thirty years. She'll mumble as the surprise computes, will grab her phone and look up quantum physics, then crack a crooked smile. Something funny is coming. Something like Adam is my atom. "Like it?" I ask. He does. High school science was boring and confusing; nothing but Cs and Ds. I don't understand much of what Adam says, but do try to apply it. "Marg is a positive proton." Adams nods as he fiddles with my nightie. "She'll be happy for us and will want to know when I knew." Adam props himself up on a pillow. "Knew what, specifically?" "When you were the one." He cocks a bushy eyebrow. "You told me I was a charm quark." Sounded sweet, whatever it is. Apparently, the randomness of molecules in the human brain suggests we don't have free will. Elliot, my negatively charged younger brother. When he finds out about us, he'll agree. Will mansplain that I sure as hell don't because I'm smitten and at, snort, fifty-nine. "Blah-blah ridiculous to get into a common-law entanglement blah-blah." Says Adam, "Well, I have asked you to marry me. Will repeat." He throws back the blankets and, in pyjamas covered with equations, plunks down on one creaky knee beside the bed. "Tomorrow is Valentine's Day." He takes my hand. "A surprise wedding! Let's invite your friend and your brother over. Tessa is already coming." Tessa. Our annual mother-daughter party is tomorrow. "We'll wed in front of them in the living room or on the patio." Oh, God. I pull Adam back into bed, play with the numbers on his jammies. "Dunno, Love." "Why not?" When Tessa was seven, her father left and a new universe—such a hard one—began. It's been just her and I ever since. And ever since, Valentine's Day has been our day. We give each other roses. We have Marry Me Chicken and watch sappy romances, sigh that we'll both find The One someday. Always thought my beautiful girl, now nearly thirty-two, would've been the first. "I can't. I can't shock Tessa with a wedding." "Valentine's Day should be ours," grumbles Adam. Don't know how to answer, so I don't. "I'll tell her about us tomorrow." Adam perks up. Advice comes as easily to him as formulae. I bet he fills blackboards when teaching. Serve soothing chamomile tea. Serve dark chocolate. It can ease anxiety. Become the detached transmitter of information, the "Alice" of his quantum cryptography experiments. Tessa will be the "Bob", the receiver. So as not to be "Eve", the theoretical eavesdropper, Adam will leave the house before Tessa arrives. One look into my girl's brown eyes and I'll screw everything up, confuse her so badly she'll blurt, "Huh? There's an Alice and some guy named Bob mixed up with you and this Adam? OMG, Mum." Shudder. I need much simpler. "What about telling her you fell into my lap and I fell into yours?" Adam drums his fingers on the sheets. "But is gravity compatible with quantum physics?" Slowly, I say what I never have about his science: "I do not care." Adam's mouth twitches. I tell him I want Tessa to hug me, say she's so glad I've found someone and holler where the hell is he anyway because she wants to meet him, warn him that he better be damn good to me. Or else. Adam blinks-blinks. "Yeah, Tessa can be tough." This Valentine's Day might be red and heated. Messy for him. Adam flops back on his pillow. Although I know he knows he kinda did, my professor of physics mumbles, "Nobody said this was going to be easy." Karen Walker Karen Walker (she/her) writes short in a low basement in Ontario, Canada. Her recent work is in or forthcoming in Exist Otherwise, antonym, Mythic Picnic, Misery Tourism, and Does it Have Pockets.
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