River, Blood, And Corn Literary Journal

Broadcasting Beacon

by Alice Rose Crow~Maar’aq

Weaved through North Arlington again

to reach a(nother) long wait.

At a bank of inserted, taxed, maintained

cross-lights on Benson at Lois

—after a Loussac library hold pickup and

early evening Iñupiat oil inletside trail walk—

this gaze follows a named next-next-next-next-hext generation.

A rubbernecking expat bicycler in-training.

Above, on a signifying chicken-type

wire-enclosed footbridge with an accompanying mountain/wolf tooth pattern

—raising up then pointing down—

a butt-ass naked budding Brown woman gestures wildly as she hurries

across and back,

back and across.

A(nother) pacing

pacing

sentinel.

Traffic lights finally try

change.

Too late to veer east?

Swallow.

Follow southeast.

Turn onto Lois then signal

to maneuver across and back. Check west and wait against a pulse of even more gawking passers.

Navigate to reach Benson’s far north fourth/

third lane. Enter a southern side lot

of a gentrifying spec housing stock/customizing home constructor.

Park at the foot of northern steps

where a burdened male stands deciding what to do?

Emerge from a dusty, pollen-strewn aging black Toyota sedan.

From the stairwell base, he asks,

Do you have it handled?

Raise myself toward a fury of (yet) a(nother) ranting woman.

Ask that particular questioning male,

Would you please mind waiting

to make sure I’m ok?

Check both ears where long, patiently heated and shaped swirls of copper exchanged during a Friday evening stroll in Madison seven summers ago swing

swing

are swung.

Unlatch a front door.

Take a maybe-not-really-fading royal blue

—Cabela’s Made in China Gore-Tex—

raincoat from a driver’s seat and ready to begin this climb.

Just past a first landing: a fallen scarecrow.

A tan cashmere-weight

—shiny camel-lined—waistcoat,

a folded then knotted bandana,

sweats, top, undies,

a patterned pair of

crew socks and canvas sneakers,

an almost full thin syringe beside a short stack of bright foil packets

neatly arrayed across a southern side of an upper flight of northern cemented stairs.

Above, a woman’s voice firmly announces,

I never wanted to get married.

I never meant to!

Reach an overpass.

She is striding with remnants of a naked brown woman’s body flowing below a full head of streaky chemically coppered hair.

She

—still she—

advances

as I offer a hand-me-down tax-deducted raincoat.

Are you ok?

Raising her voice she makes her claim:

I’m interrupting her broadcast.

A screed?

Can’t you see I’m BROADCASTING?

Yes, slowly I nod.

Broadcasting.

Where you from?

Are you ok?

NO.

She wants

—I want—

people to look and see

what this city does to People.

She paces, gesturing across a nakedness

that is her own brown

—patchy discolored and scarred—

yet still strong body.

Aarpallruuq:

Look! LOOK!

See? SEE?

They need to SEE WHAT EVE LOOKS LIKE.

HEAR WHAT IS BEING DONE in this place. What they are doing TO PEOPLE HERE.

I AM EVE.

Look! LOOK!

See? SEE?

Still—quiet—slowly I ask, where you from?

Offer the Bishop Attic’d

double zipped ykk raincoat.

Couldn’t there be

—isn't there—

a better way

to solve problems we find here?

How is this helping?

Sweeping my right arm across more imported cars steady streaming east on Benny Benson below, suggest,

people passing can’t hear hollered words

but some will want to try call pole-ees

because they do (not want to) see you

naked like this.

GOOD!

Cops could come take me to jail

to make them all see Eve

even if I have to do it

ONE

ONE.

Cocks then fires a pointer finger trigger.

ONE TWO THREE...

Asserts I’m taken over by evil, letting it—them—inside me.

Asks, why did you let them inside?

Get them out.

OUT!

I pinch a scarred brow and slow shake

my head. No.

More quietly now—

no.

Where you from?

Offer the fading royal blue raincoat.

I would want you to try help

if you saw me naked and

talking like this

but I do see

I can’t really help you

like this

right now.

As I start down those hard steps,

she turns to face me,

drops a knee,

apologizes for forgetting her manners.

I look up to her.

SORRY.

Sorry.

I mistook you for somebody else.

You’re probably married

and in bed by 9 and

don’t know what happens at night.

Girls, kids are sex trafficked...

She tells me her English language name.

I smile. Reply with mine.

Out of respect for X and Y Z she says

I will cover myself.

Good, I say. Thank you.

Quyana.

She steps down,

bending to reach for an outspread coat. Slowly turns each sleeve inside out,

saying something about needing to do it like that because of how it was offered...

a man looking so sad...sad.

The now not-waiting man calls out,

I’m leaving now.

Pausing at a landing, I gesture toward plastic syringe and packets to say, please don’t put that shit in you...

Continue down. Reach a bottom and thank the back of a quickly-walking-away man.

Thank you, sir,

I attempt.

Circle round to drive away past a looking-down man now climbing into a low Audi

with its gleaming overlapping four-ringed symbol of progressive engineering.

At the southbound stoplight on Lois,

I look east to see our latest kinswoman pacing across and back—

raging with nipples bared in a manner of Pauline Opangu.

This time she is inside a sheen of an inside-out sandy coat shielding her scarred still strong aging Brown body.

Aarpagtuq, aarayuli.

Her words are in my ears as she shimmers in an evening sun echo-screaming, How many more Epsteins? Why so many Acostas?

She is—we are—waning and yet still climb above enemies on all sides, all around.

Alice Rose Crow~Maar’aq, was born for and raised on the Kusquqvak in southwest Alaska. She nests in Spenard, a southcentral Alaska westwardly neighborhood near water and take offs and landings. Ali is a momma, granny, lover, ilung, relative, and friend. She completed an Institute of American *Indigenous Arts MFA in Creative Writing under the guidance of Chip Livingston and Elissa Washuta. Her longer works remain underway. In them she explores dynamics of holding steady and moving forward in these times of rapid change and anomie. For whatever it might be worth, Ali is a member of the Orutsararmuit Native Council and is an original ANCSA Calista and Bethel Native Corporation shareholder.

Cesar Love Poetry

Inventory

I am removing items from my refrigerator
Cheeses that wouldn’t save
Vegetables that had hoped for another day
Strange meats forgotten in the attic

There is rancid stuff in jars
There is wilted stuff in baggies
I acknowledge them and say good-bye
In the basement
There is a unique kind of sweet potato
Which was given by a friend
I had forgotten about them both

Donut Shop

most customers order theirs to go
the glazed, the old fashioned, the maple bars
they take them in small white bags
the big orders in pink boxes

there are also patrons who order “for here”
they nest at the counter and at tables beside the window
daydreams floating like buttermilk bars
memories uncurling like cinnamon rolls
amusements twirl
ideas fancy as French twists

flavorsome steam ascends from the coffee pots
dark roast, kona, or hazel
refills on the house

© Cesar Love. All rights reserved.

Cesar Love is a Latino poet influenced by the Asian masters. A resident of San Francisco’s Mission District, he is also an editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal.

He is the author of Birthright and While Bees Sleep.
cesarlovepoetry.yolasite.com

Grandma's Invitation

by Julene Waffle

“I can read a newspaper by the moonlight tonight,”

she said, looking out the window above the kitchen sink.

I knew it as a brief invitation,

scratched quickly on air,

to sit and watch the interstitial moments

of deep dusk turned night.

Moon-shadows dripped from tree branches

like honey-glaze on fresh-baked biscuits,

and breezes carried crushed fern and summer tree

musk down the mountain on their backs.

Under wind-tousled hair, we held our breaths

as nocturnal shadows danced and

jumped from tree to tree,

memories of midnight dreams.

Peepers chirruped their love songs;

their lovers answered flirtatiously.

Bats swooped silently for insect supper,

and evening birds tittered and whispered,

buttoning the last vestiges of day to close.

On nights like this, we’d sit on the porch

amidst unfinished chores and stories untold

in thin night dresses and slippers, ready for sleep,

willing witnesses, yet bed and pillow

insufficient temptations.

Together,

we’d sit and listen

in our own silences.

Eyes closed, she’d soak in the damp of

night and heart-whisper her

own love songs and dreams and memories.

Sometimes her lips would curl, flatten, or oh,

forming thoughts on air

but uttering no sound.

Her white hair brushed out and standing on end,

a crown of wisdom or a cloud of doubt,

I didn’t know which.

And me, afraid to listen, afraid to not,

I’d watch her, hoping to learn something,

but I couldn't tell what

except to say I wish I had asked.

Julene Waffle is a mother of three boys and a secondary English Teacher for over 20 years in a small rural upstate New York school. Her love of language was perpetuated at Hartwick College and Binghamton University. Her poetry, speaking to the everyday people of her everyday life, is widely published.

All-american Gong Girl

By Deborah Jang

Eldest daughter of Gong Chow and
Siu Shee, immigrant couple from China.
Born in Richmond, California, north
of San Francisco, just across the bay.

Named Fong Yuet for the ancestors. State-
side she was June. To me, forever Mom.
Fireworks the night before announced
her arrival July fifth nineteen thirty.

Every Independence Day she felt pangs
of affirmative glee -- as if she belonged.
At least to the sky. At nine she was sent
to Chinese school in San Francisco,

an immigrant custom she soon rejected.
She hopped on the Greyhound bus alone,
rode home to her parents’ chagrin.
At Richmond Elementary she joined

the harmonica band, worked the restaurant
after school, did not miss a shift.
During wartime the family moved
to the valley, where June was a big hit.

Team debater, class treasurer, best-dressed
girl at Merced High — she had it going on.
Chinese pilots training at the air base
lined up for her dance card. She tango’d,

cha-cha’d, bunny hopped with gusto
and soft laughter. Got a job downtown
Merced selling ladies dresses. Took up with
the owner who promised to promote her.

Post-war, Gong Chow had made plans
to return to China. The story goes June
said NO, kept her little sister with her
while the ship dipped off horizon.

June and sis stayed with Monroe, the now
betrothed store owner. He promised
her folks his good care but didn’t really
follow through, so June then divorced him

Though not before the three of us claimed
her heart forever. Dave Allen was the next guy.
With him she bore two more sons, of Chinese
Irish extraction. Bridge clubs, soccer,

cul-de-sacs filled her American sky. Especially
on July fourth her urgent eyes scanned
the night for oomph pah pah, or maybe
something keener. By now we lived back

by the bay. It was the flowered sixties.
Her five young grew out their hair,
while she and Dave plied the days
with good times, hard work, harder drink.

He died young, she carried on, the children
ventured forth. Her last man was Ken Wilkins,
though there were others in between - all this
to say, she enjoyed the company of fellows.

When Ken passed it hit her hard. The children
couldn't save her. At sixty-two June was through.
We sprinkled her at sea. I strike the gong.
It rumbles wide, ripples up night sky.

Where do the good, kindhearted go?

To lipstick smiles
left on napkins perfectly
half stuck on rims
where gin and tonics flowed

Gliding long as fingertips
that tucked me into cool
crisp sheets in days when sleep
was easy, a keeper
of shy adorations
nestled in young motherlove

Arpege, Pall Malls, show
tunes, novels, husbands
in a row, loud laughing
midnight parties
turned to shouting
or big whispers
then to fragile mornings after

Scrabble, dim sum, Niners,
grandkids

Now to ashes dancing
at the gate, not
missing one last beat.

© Deborah Jang. All Rights Reserved.

Deborah Jang writes her way through the mysteries, perplexities, and joys of being human — on this planet, at this moment, in this skin. She is also a visual artist, engaging connection through forms and objects. She wanders between Denver, CO and Oceanside, CA; between mind and heart; between land and sea. She invites you to visit her website at deborahjang.com

Crow Quotes Revisited

by MariJo Moore

Many years ago, I had a premonition of starting a little publishing company, and so I did. Crow Quotes was the first book published by rENEGADE pLANETS pUBLISHING. This was in 1996. At the time, I was admonished for being a self-published writer; one well-known book reviewer refused to review my books because of this. My, my, how times have changed. I have always been a bit ahead of my time. (The first edition of the book was published on hemp.)

So it goes. Through the past years I have written many other books: novels, poetry, fiction, non- fiction, and edited several anthologies of Indigenous writers, all which have been teachings and sharings. However, Crow Quotes has always come back to my mind, in bits and pieces of the quotes, reminding me so much about life. And by receiving, even recently, letters and emails from readers who relate how have they kept this little book by their side, relishing the quotes - some over twenty years.

Several months ago I was given another premonition - it was time to offer Crow Quotes again. Time for the book to expand and reach out into the world in a new format. And so I have. Thus, Crow Quotes Revisited.

Sample of quotes:

"Keep in mind you are a part of the whole.
The future is planted within you."

"Want to confuse a crow?
Try explaining human religions."

Cover art by noted Pueblo artist Virgi Ortiz.

For more info and to order, please visit www.marijomoore.com/booksandart.html

Thank you for supporting an independently owned company.

MariJo Moore
www.marijomoore.com

Art Works

by Robert Bensen

Sara Bates, “Honoring Circle” (sculpture)

Before a shop built downtown sealed over a spring and a little creek,

excavation turned up the bones of a man, his pipe and some shards of clay

that came from this embankment above the Susquehanna—

clay that made the brick that made the shop that hides the creek

that flows through pipe that’s made with clay that made the pipe they dug

beside the man they found not long ago, long after he had turned to clay.

If spirit lives in everything and everything in spirit

then the young woman with a virus raging in the head

who has fallen asleep beside Sarah's “Honoring Circle” while the rest write

may have dreamed herself one day as pleasant as this

beside a pretty little creek above a bluff and drank from its talkative source

in the warmth of a complicated sun, an agitated sun

flaring with seeds and pods and leaves and shells and petals,

a composed sun from whose center the crossed roads carry

what they always carry down their seven shining paths

until the red sun of evening stripes her face

and she flutters awake to find herself alone

with this work, this disk of gifts on the floor, walk about

and wonder what on earth she saw in it, and what she sees.

An excerpt from Before by Robert Bensen

Robert Bensen has published six collections of poetry, including Orenoque, Wetumka & Other Poems, and Before. His work has earned an NEA poetry fellowship, the Robert Penn Warren Award, the Harvard Summer Poetry Prize, and Illinois Arts Council and NY State Council on the Arts awards. His scholarship in the Caribbean and Native America has produced essays, studies, and editions, won fellowships from the NEH and Newberry Library, and led to teaching in St. Lucia, Trinidad and Tobago, and Venezuela. He is the editor of Children of the Dragonfly: Native American Voices on Child Custody and Education. He is Emeritus Professor of English at Hartwick College (1978-2017). He teaches at SUNY-Oneonta, and conducts a poetry workshop at Bright Hill Literary Center, Treadwell.

www.robertbensen.com