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POETRY

Truth and Violence Carved My Baby Out of Stone

Jordan Escobar

A simple admixture: my baby bleeds beer. Back down
the trivial runnels, a spine thatched like an orchard,
like rows of vines, like a citrus grove where the moth comes 
powdery in dust and ash, an envoy from mother’s lips. 
What words do you have to bless us with today? My baby,
my baby, my baby. My baby prays on bended knees 
to the solemn god of boreholes and deep wells, 
to meadowlarks mistaken for mourning doves,
their shot-riddled breasts like a smoky question mark
in the late afternoon sky. Who forgets us? What
crosshairs stumble across our chests? My baby wants
to know. My baby wants to be fed. Handfuls of the good stuff.
Mulched leaves, brown pine needles, dirty radishes  
with their wiry roots dangling like the hair of an old man’s scalp.
My baby is just a baby. Too young to sing, too old to suck
a thumb. My baby got cut by a hatchet trying to break wood
and roast hotdogs over a fire somewhere in the far North
where the sky creeps into gray being. A slow crawl
across the hemisphere. My baby skips river stones. Whispers,
don’t make me love you, to the dewed earth, the cinquefoils,
to every vista point on the side of the highway with a nice view
and an informative map. This is how my baby gets there:
traces a route across veiny forearms. This is warm fluid
splashed across those channels. Those tattoos. Don’t make me
love you. Don’t make this a song. My baby bites a lip, 
blooms a red mouth. My baby does cartwheels in the hushed night.
Plays cards with the boys. Drinks a wet glass of whisky. Pounds
the summer away. With headaches and two-by-fours. Stares
out the window of a plane at a desperate city desperately spreading
like lichen on a rock. My baby counts the space between fingers.
Palm on the forehead. Mouth to mouth in a summer squall.
Soft rain like ecstatic tears. My baby is the scars rising from 
our chests. A bird flying backwards in a storm. A scaleless
trout flopping on the edge. A haunted memory, an opaque
future. My baby looks down at the valley with clear 
open eyes. Offers a tongue. My baby is you. My baby is me.

Jordan Escobar is a writer in Jamaica Plain, MA. He is a 2022 Djanikian Scholar in Poetry. Recent work can be found in Zone 3, Willow Springs, Colorado Review and elsewhere. He currently divides his time teaching at Emerson College and Babson College, and working as a professional beekeeper.
Artwork by Seth Scheving

Seth Scheving is a watercolorist in Anderson, South Carolina. His art style is a combination of unorganized notes and thoughts blended with rigorous, tedious details. All of the work has a vulnerability, dark undertones, or subtle humor. Seth's work has some immediate technical characteristics: white or black backgrounds with large amounts of negative space, animals or portraits, symbolism, heavy use of colors, and handwritten text. Over the past decade, Seth has won multiple art awards, been published in magazines, and has been included in several art shows across the region.

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Rachel B. Glaser is the author of the novel Paulina & Fran, the short story collection Pee On Water, and the poetry books MOODS and HAIRDO. Glaser studied painting at RISD and received her MFA in Creative Writing from Umass-Amherst. In 2017, she was on Granta’s list of Best of Young American Novelists. Her fiction has been anthologized in New American Stories. She lives in Northampton, Massachusetts and teaches at the Mountainview Low-Residency MFA.

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