 Arlington Literary Journal an ejournal also known as ArLiJo, is located in Arlington, Virginia and is sponsored by Gival Press. The intent of ArLiJo is to feature a variety of authors/poets/artists from around the globe whose work provokes readers to contemplate issues, etc. The work chosen promotes understanding and sensitivity across borders, even if initially the work may cause one to take a double-take. Staff Editor-in-Chief, Robert L. Giron Special Women in Translation Month Editor, Katherine E. Young Intern/Assistant Reviewer, Elena Botts The Reading Period for ArLiJo will open from January 15 to April 15, 2019. Please note that publication in ArLiJo will be by invitation only, starting August 1, 2019. Any work published shall remain the property of the author/poet/artist and for any previously published work to appear the author/poet/artist must still retain the copyright of the work. Please note that ArLiJo is an ejournal. Payment for publication is a book from a selection of books listed below which have been published by Gival Press. Books Available to ArLiJo Contributors NONFICTION: Sexy Liberal! Of Me I Sing by Stephanie Miller FICTION: Dream of Another America by Tyler McMahon Ghost Horse by Thomas H. McNeely Mayhem: Three Lives of a Woman by Elizabeth Harris Show Up, Look Good by Mark Wisniewski That Demon Life by Lowell Mick White Twelve Rivers of the Body by Elizabeth Oness The Cannibal of Guadalajara by David Winner The Best of Gival Press Short Stories ed. by Robert L. Giron The Second Act by Tim Brown Barrow’s Point by Robert Schirmer POETRY: Poetic Voices Without Borders ed by Robert L. Giron On the Altar of Greece by Donna J. Gelagotis Lee Poetic Voices Without Borders 2 ed by Robert L. Giron Songs for the Spirit by Robert L. Giron On the Tongue by Jeff Mann Bones Washed With Wine by Jeff Mann The Great Canopy by Paula Goldman Sweet to Burn by Beverly Burch Protection by Gregg Shapiro Honey by Richard Carr 12 Sonnets for the Zodiac by John Gosslee Adamah: Poème by Celine Zins |
Featured in ArLiJo Issue 122 Stab I love Jesus but not enough to die for Him if the situation was re -versed, or is that were, and I had to sac -rifice myself for Him but then again if I had to that might mean that someone forced me to or at least talked me into it so so much for sacrifice, I have to give myself freely, maybe I’d take a bullet for Him or push Him out of the way of a speeding car which would hit and kill me dead instead, I’m not sure if I’m man enough to be the Son of God which is what I ’d almost have to be to substitute for Him, well, maybe not where it counts—teaching and healing and all that, not to mention miracles, not that heal -ing’s not, exactly, but I mean the big ones, walking on water, say, and raising the dead though I wonder if that really comes under the heading of miracles, I guess you can’t get any sicker than dead but anyway I’m ashamed of my -self though I’m only ten years old so I hope to grow into being a hero when the time comes, when the time really comes, but ask me to pack it in&mdashso that God can live again, if Jesus is God, they swear to that in Sunday School—and I think I’d pull a Peter, which might not be so bad, he does have the keys to Heaven and he was a rock, upon him Jesus built His church, the Bible tells me so any -way, there might be something to it. Today I fell asleep in class and Miss Hooker had to rouse me and when I realized just where the Hell I was and my eyes met Miss Hooker’s like two spears into the side of Jesus—I just made that up, that makes me kind of a Creator though I ought to revise that: her eyes stabbed me but then again maybe I was right the first time but who knows, maybe I’m right both times—when I realized where I was and nobody was happy but my classmates were laughing though at and not with me, then for a moment there I thought I’d murdered Jesus instead of saved Him, which to tell the truth I didn’t do, either. After Sunday School I apologized to her, Miss Hooker I mean—she loves Jesus like crazy. If she died now that would be good somehow. But I won’t die for that, neither. Copyright © 2019 by Gale Acuff. Resurrection The morning after I bury my dog I wolf my scrambled eggs and check on him, below the garden, where we bury pets and their graves cover over with grass, so we never remember whose grave is whose. I’m almost through the garden when I see death coming back to life but not the way they talk about at church. And talk about and talk about. Something’s dug him up, my dog, Caesar, Caesar is his name, although he’s dead now so I’m not sure if a name I can’t call to bring its bearer to me is really a name anymore if it doesn’t do what a name should do. I mean, something’s been digging at his grave and he’s got one paw coming up for air. When I think I’m sensible again I run back to the house. My father’s shaving and I can’t be too excited or he’ll nick himself, maybe even cut his throat. Father, I say, as I creep down the hall —the bathroom door’s just open, the way old people forget to shut them, although Father isn’t that old, and anyway, he went to college. For six years. Seven. Now he’s a geography teacher. Father, I repeat. Yes, son, he says. What can I do for you? His speech sounds strange—he’s shaving, after all, so he moves his face to help the razor do its job, just like he’s a contortionist from the neck up. I’ve seen it—he makes funny faces which used to scare me when I was little—I’m ten now—but now I can hear the strangeness. Father, I say, someone dog up Caesar. Or something. Is that a fact, he says. It’s not really a question, and he doesn’t seem surprised. Yes, sir, I say. There’s a leg sticking out. You don’t say, he says. Yes, sir, I say. Well, well. I’ll be there pretty soon. Meanwhile, you get the shovel and go back and I’ll meet you there. Yes, sir, I say. Right. I walk to the barn and find the shovel again—I’d forgotten where it was and I was the one who put it up last night after Father and I finished digging the hole. I walk around the garden and see it again, one leg pointing to sky and I don’t come too close—not that I’m scared, exactly. But I’m not gung-ho, neither. I stand and stare and soon Father joins me. I heard him cough when he came out the door. he did that so he wouldn’t startle me, I guess. I point to the grave and he says, Well, well. For pity’s sake. What do you know about that. Okay, son. Let’s do it again. I follow him—right at his heels though I’m not eager, just a bit lonely. I want to give him the shovel—before I can he says, Okay, son, let’s dig him up. Just like that. I dig with my eyes closed and when I have to open them I don’t look directly at the leg. Father lifts him out and says, Okay, a little deeper this time, son. When I’m through he puts Caesar back in and I refill the hole and we walk and walk on it to keep a good dog down. Alright, Father says. Go get those bricks from the old fireplace and bring them over. I get the wheelbarrow and fill it with bricks and manage to roll it without it falling over. Father lays them down like a brick floor on top of Caesar’s grave. There, he says. That ought to hold him. Only now can I ask, Father, what happened last night? He wipes his face with both long sleeves. Raccoon, maybe, he says, looking for some protein. Another dog, maybe. There’s no telling but that’s my guess or two. He’s alright now, he adds. Put the shovel and the wheelbarrow up. I do and meet him at the back door. He’s smoking a Lucky Strike. I’m sorry, son, he says. It happens. It’s Nature’s way. I’m not sure if he means it’s Nature’s way to die or Nature’s way to be dug up again, or maybe he means both. Yes, sir, I say. It got to me but I’ll be fine. He laughs. It gets us all, he says. He sighs. I think he means death, and not just surprise. You cut yourself shaving, I say. Oh, that, he says. It’s nothing. Which means it’s something. Copyright © 2019 by Gale Acuff. About the Author Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, Chiron Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Poem, Adirondack Review, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, Slant, Carolina Quarterly, Arkansas Review, South Dakota Review, and many other journals. Acuff has authored three books of poetry, all from BrickHouse Press: Buffalo Nickel, The Weight of the World, and The Story of My Lives. Acuff has taught university English courses in the US, China, and Palestine. Christopher Barnes Featured in ArLiJo Issue 122 “Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (4) “You always this gruff? Muzzling your jaw smooths our racket. Could’ve pocketed Betterbridge, worth the undertaking. He was roundly pinpointed. Whine baby, avanti.” “There’s no getaway hatch That doesn’t swing onto a precipice.” Copyright © 2019 by Christopher Barnes. “Putting You Through Now, Caller.” (5) “This wipe out has its Laurel & Hardy ingredient. You had it jaggy Radiating yourself in vending machine glam. An x marks the colour print. Everything’s thimblerigged, faithworthy.” “Skewing reminiscences aren’t discretion, Costa del Sol waits, A golden bubble.” Copyright © 2019 by Christopher Barnes. About the Author Christopher Barnes won the 1998 Northern Arts Writers Award. He has read his work at several events, including at Proudwords, a lesbian and gay writing festival. This collection Lovebites was published in 2005 (Chanticleer Press, Edinburgh, Scotland). Jaren Michelle Featured in ArLiJo Issue No. 122 The Pair The laundry room smells of some freshman’s burnt ramen. There’s a dirty plate in the sink right below the“please don’t leave dirty dishes” sign. Someone’s left the window open; snow dusts the floor. I close the window and sit on top of the tumbling dryer to keep warm. The room is small: just two washers and dryers, a sink, and a microwave. White walls, brown-tile floor. A bulletin board hangs on the wall; the RA pinned up only a half-sheet of notebook paper. In hot pink glitter pen it reads, My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.—Jesus. A small cardboard box has been sitting on the dryer across from me for weeks now. It”s labeled in Sharpie: Homeless Socks, Doodled on the box is a cartoon likeness of a sock, lost to the perilous seas of the washing machine. At first, there had been only one or two, but I counted new ones every day. Today the homeless sock box is full. Before the box was there, people put missing socks on the window sill, assuming someone would eventually come get them. They sat in a row, cold, gathering dust, looking too small. Some ended up on the floor or fell in the crevice between the washer and dryer. But when the homeless-sock box appeared, the socks could wait in a soft little pile together, saved from the fall. I’m skipping chapel again today. It’s not worth walking across campus in the snow. Out the window, I see groups of girls huddled in friendly clumps. They don’t notice me watching as they leave schools of footprints behind. About the Author Jaren Michelle is the 2018-19 editor of the Quercus, art and literary magazine, at St. Ambrose University. Her short fiction work has been published in Quercus, and her poetry has appeared in Indiana Wesleyan University’s Caesura literary magazine. She is completing her writing degree at St. Ambrose University in Davenport, Iowa. Tim J. Myers Featured in ArLiJo Issue No. 122  Family of Death Squad Victim Copyright © 2019 by Tim J. Myers. About the Artist Tim J. Myers is a widely published writer who has also published 14 works of visual art, including some in The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review at Johns Hopkins. Visit: http://www.timmyersstorysong.com/TM_Website/Tim_Myers_art.html Lucy Ricciardi Featured in ArLiJo Issue No. 122 Liquidity Trap The husband is drunk in a pool of his own making. A stranger realigns his legs for symmetry. Between him and the cold steps nothing but slippery rot of ginko and moss. If he had the cash, he could flow like a lover over the edge seeking unexplored lows. His fingers discover depressions where water collects in the absence of other options. His wife slips down the shiny streets past raucous calls from the hundred yen shop, past the silence of Kyoto’s specialty stalls of rare broken tea, blood-red gold-flecked lacquer and knives to last a thousand years. She walks home in the rain. Copyright © 2019 by Lucy Ricciardi. Berlin, October, 2011 What is left to say of a city dismembered, re-assembled? Even the young drag rubble-heaps like entrails in lagged reproach of their sunny affect, their violent art. Invisible Berlin is more compelling than its giddy surface. Always two varieties of possession, the real and the remembered. Here we have a statue, part of a frieze— the rest is in Russia or still crated in the basement with basalt from Tel Halaf. And here, a map. We saved the list. We know what was lost. It would have been exactly here. It was— We were lucky, the villagers buried these plates in the fields, later returned bearing them as in a blackened fairy tale. Look now at the scale model of the city, four meters square, in three colors. White is what remained. Yellow has been reconstituted. Pink is what is planned for 2023. We have always been forward-looking, consider the Staatsbibliothek, our next bride, decked in glass and lit with crystal prisms, reflecting un-built Berlin in every bevel. Still a feel of empire along the boulevards. Across an open field, illiquid waves of granite blocks anchor the uneven earth. “ A Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe” Berlin is left to city planners who live in a house of the bifurcated twinning and turning to remake the past according to old recipes like this one for October plum torte. Join us in our bunker, re-worked as a gallery of contemporary art. Exhibit one is a naked woman, made from a plucked and shellacked chicken beside a female amputee. Next are fragments of the bitter concrete where 2,000 people were crammed. These were German citizens. What did they have to say to each other once they emerged? Berlin is our pink rose. Copyright © 2019 by Lucy Ricciardi. About the Author Lucy Ricciardi’s poems raise issues of fairness, health, love, and the weirdness of Nature. She was raised in Carle Place, Long Island in one of Levitt’s first housing developments. She now lives with her husband in Connecticut where she is working on a poetry collection. John Stocks Featured in ArLiJo Issue No. 122 Deserted Cottage. County Kerry. Who were they, and why did they leave? Grieving for their patch of peaty soil Few traces left, smothered by fecund Growth, flourishing in well-loved loam. Impossible then to ascertain How long it lingered, in neglect. Nettles high as the breasts of girls Who carried the butter-milk home Through fields of yellow gorse, pink-heather. The big fella said the slates were old Old as God, the Devil and the rain Ripped from a church, three hundred years ago. But as for the unrecorded lives He shrugged, no one appeared to know Whether it was famine from the blight Or some distant, domestic trauma That pulled up their roots, and sent them flying Swift as winter shadows on the Samhain fires. Copyright © 2019 by John Stocks. To breathe this air. Oh, the terrible beauty of the bay and peaty bog-mountain knockatee a land drenched into sorrows that drifts away beyond the blood-soaked estuary to a land of booze and infamy. For the terrible beauty of the bay with its mists, and ghosts, and shadow play half believed legends of distant days little people, Fianna and the fays human life as fragile as wind-blown leaves. And the terrible beauty of the bay In winter storm, tumultuous spray the boys from Limerick, Dub and Galway all wide eyed, wild and reckless, born to stray to exile and bitter-sweet misery. When the lights of New York are blazing when the mist and the whisky come calling my fine Island half a life time away; oh, the terrible beauty of the bay. About the Author John Stocks is a UK-based poet, novelist, historian and freelance journalist who has had work published in magazines worldwide and whose work has been widely anthologised. Since 2010 he has appeared in the UK Soul Feathers anthology, alongside Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Seamus Heaney, Carol Ann Duffy, Maya Angelou, Sharon Olds and others. He is the poetry editor of Bewildering Stories magazine and has published and edited several creative anthologies, including, Gaze Diverse Visions and the award-winning GANDA magazine. |
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