Remembering Tigers

I hear my voice, aged to a growl,
telling about the years
when there were tigers.
How we crept toward shadows
bored and fat in the sun,
or clapped with sticky fingers
for leaps through rings of fire.
How glimpsing a muscle tremor
made us strong
or hearing roaring jaws
made us tremble.
We saw these things, knowing
they were partial truth,
closed our eyes to feel
the tiger uncaged, body tense,
one ear twitching with the smell
of prey, beyond reason or pity.
Leaping then, with claws arched
for the flesh, teeth made ready
for tearing bone.
The blood always left us spellbound.
I know it must seem strange,
my body striped by age.
In the tiger years
we devoured.

--Monica Garvin Dees

Literary Art Selection

Asphyxiation, strangulation, suffocation--perhaps the most agonizing and primevally dreaded of all deaths. This superlative has less to do with the mechanical failure of the lungs than with the brutal lashings of consciousness. Here, the victim is aware that life is all around him and he is unable to take it in, and that each passing second brings him closer to the end. But there is something else. In cases where one is smothered by his own anatomy, such as the asthmatic whose throat swells causing him to suffocate, there arises a feeling that he is being done in by an excess of self, stifled by his own identity.

As he made his way down the hall toward room 126, Alan understood this all too well. With each passer-by, each look that seemed to say "Hi...which one are you?" Alan felt his throat begin to swell. He thought about what God said to Cain: "Listen! Your brother's blood cries out to me from the ground." Alan wondered what the cries of blood sound like...and if Cain killed Abel by strangulation.

His gloom was soon remedied, however, thanks to the careless student who left room 126's window open. It was still the first days of March, spring had not yet officially arrived, so when he leaned over the piano, peering out of the blank wall's gaping mouth, the surprise and delight which the tune suffused in Alan quickly deferred any feelings of asphyxiation. The song of the sparrow had always been a breath of fresh air. Alan had developed a great fondness for the bird and its song early in life. Hearing the distinct melody, its three repetitive notes trailing off into tonal variation, up and down through the mountainous regions of the major scale, he was brought back to his and Rob's eighth birthday.

It was actually Robert who had found the bird (although an observer would have no way of knowing that it was not Alan) and brought it back to the house where the party was still in progress. Ludwig, as the boys would name him, had sustained a minor wing injury and been found whimpering in a privet by the child as he searched for his hiding playmates. The distressed bird had brought an abrupt end to the game--and would soon bring an untimely end to the party.

In the following weeks, Alan and Robert would gain an undying love for the sparrow and its song as they bonded together in nursing Ludwig back to health, for these were the days when the identical twins loved each other dearly, before Alan would develop an unspoken hatred for his brother.

Thoughts of these days consumed Al's mind as he sat in room 126, repeating on the piano the melody sung by the brownish bird. This is when the idea came to him: a concerto based on the song of the sparrow.

Alan immediately began playing with the idea on the keyboard, trying to capture the repetitive structure of the tune while sustaining the necessary fluidity of a formal composition. Before the young composer knew it, darkness had covered the campus, and his feathered vocalist had disappeared. He'd hit a dry spell with the sonata anyway and so decided to pick it up after getting some much needed rest. Alan planned on some left over pizza, a bit of Debussy on the harp, and bed.

Robert's car was not parked in front of the apartment, so Alan reasoned that his brother had gone to Professor Rossini's seminar on Eradian double-action pedal manipulation. So much the better. The quiet would help Alan relax, and his brother's company was not desired in any case.

There were only two slices of the pepperoni and sausage left, but Al wasn't very hungry anyway. As he munched on a strand of mozzarella, Alan noticed that Robert had left the desk lamp on. Approaching the light, he saw a piece of music resting on the drawing board--apparently Robert had completed a new composition. Looking it over, Alan's jaw dropped to his belt, although he really shouldn't have been surprised to find that his brother had finished a perfectly executed piano concerto based on the song of the sparrow. It was only fitting that they should have the same idea. After all, the two were identical in every way. They were physically indistinguishable, they were both exceptionally talented musicians and composers, both leaned toward the French Impressionists, both favored the harp and aspired to one day play this instrument in a symphony orchestra, and of course both felt a great affection for the song of the sparrow. Because of this, Alan hated his brother. He hated his own lack of identity, of uniqueness. Whenever anyone thought of him, they inevitably thought of Robert as well. Seeing his brother's latest composition reminded Alan of this, and his throat began to swell once more. He sat down to the harp that he shared with his brother and plucked at the strong, catgut strings fiercely with anger and passion. He hated Robert. He hated his brother.
Just then, the door opened and a young man with the same appearance as the one behind the harp came walking into the apartment. "Nocturnes," he responded to his brother's music. "Still?"
Alan wore a false grin. "They're my favorite of the orchestrations," he answered.
"Mine too," Robert said, throwing his book bag on the couch and pulling up a kitchen chair. "Especially 'Festivals.' I love the subdued atmospheric tone he's able to set, and then how it all of a sudden explodes like a--"
"Surge of electricity," Alan finished his brother's sentence.
Robert half-mockingly smirked. "We're two of a kind," he said and, just for a moment, appeared to mirror not only Alan's general appearance, but his seething hatred as well.

Alan shared only one class with his brother--advanced composition. On this day, Robert treated his fellow students to his latest work: The Song of the Sparrow. The song began, of course, with the standard three repetitive notes and then journeyed high and low through the peaks and valleys of the musical spectrum. Rob's fingers danced across the keys with unmatched grace, and a burst of adulation arose from his audience like towering flames, consuming the classroom in a blazing inferno. Only one member of the class did not participate in the silent laudation.

As he labored through Dr. Bryant's ceaseless praise of the showcased work, Alan lapsed into fantasy. He saw Robert standing in the middle of Lincoln Park and heard the sweet song of the sparrow coming from above. He saw himself approaching his brother, holding a piece of harp string tightly in his hands. He saw a swift kick to his brother's stomach send the brilliant composer to a crouched position. He saw the catgut string wrap tightly around Robert's neck. With each yank of the wire he felt more life leave his brother and more fill himself, slowly making him a whole person for the first time in his life. He saw himself swinging his brother back and forth to the beat of the song from above, squeezing tighter...tighter...until the last cloud of life rose from Robert's body to this head, and slowly sprayed out of his face, escaping into the atmosphere. He saw the lifeless body fall to the ground. He saw himself walk serenely away from the corpse, and then turn in the direction of the familiar melody to witness a sparrow sitting on a tree branch, then flying off into the horizon.

Alan was suddenly jolted back into reality by the opening chords of another classmate's composition. He saw that Robert had returned to the seat next to him and gave him a smile of approval. He leaned over to his brother, "That was great," Alan whispered. "Tell you what, let's celebrate at Lincoln Park. We can listen to the birds and do some revising."
"Great," Robert answered. "I get out of that Berlioz class at two. I'll meet you there then."

As he sat beneath a tree in the park listening to a familiar tune being whistled directly above him, the young music student wondered why his brother had not yet arrived. They had agreed to meet here at two, and it was now a quarter past. At that moment, he saw his double approaching. "Hey," he greeted him. "What took you?" His brother did not respond, but only glared at him with hatred.

Before the young musician had a chance to comment, his brother had placed a swift kick to his stomach, sending him to a crouched position. The familiar tune continued. Without hesitation, a long piece of harp string was wrapped tightly around the neck of the gasping victim. Strong arms swung the musician back and forth in time with the ethereal dirge, squeezing tightly until the lifeless body fell to the ground. The aggressor smiled, knowing that he had assigned to his brother the fate which he had always felt closing in on himself: asphyxiation, strangulation, suffocationÉthe feeling of being smothered by his own identity, of ending up with no identity at all. Robert gave a final kick to Alan's head and walked listlessly away from what was once his twin brother. As he strutted off, he paused and turned in the direction of the familiar melody. He saw that it was a mockingbird sitting on the branch of a tree, whistling the song of the sparrow. The bird suddenly took off, flying into the horizon, and Robert calmly continued on his way, knowing that for the first time in his life he had an identity of his own, that for the first time he was a whole person.

And Alan's blood did not cry out to him from the ground.

Literary Art Selection

The museum cafe was filling up quickly for a Thursday afternoon. Sitting alone, Cassandra watched people being seated: South Shore housewives in their Kasper suits on a trip to the city, art students looking uncomfortable amid the china, silver and cloth napkins, and young men and women on dates, trying hard to look "cool."

Cassandra took a gulp of her Chardonnay and felt the cold liquid go down her throat, spread through her chest, making it burn slightly, and finally settling in the pit of her already unsettled stomach. She looked at her watch; Sam was late again. But he was always late, always kept her waiting. Through the years, she waited for him in restaurants, discreet bars, no-tell motels, at the beach at night, in empty parking lots, and now five years later, Cassandra is still waiting.

"Perpetually late people want to gain power over those they keep waiting. It has to do with poor self-esteem." The quote from her therapist ran through her head. When they were a couple, Cassandra overlooked this lateness flaw. She thought it was rather endearing, but time and therapy taught her otherwise.

She almost didn't come. She didn't think she could stand to see him again; yet, she couldn't stand not to see him. Sam still had the power to pull her, to manipulate and attract her. Cassandra needed to come; she needed to get herself back from him. Today, she had to prove to herself that she could completely terminate this relationship and she almost believed it, until the drive into the city. The Mass Pike was a parking lot from Holliston to Boston proper. Every inch gained in traffic stripped Cassandra of her confidence.

The more she thought about Sam, the more she loved him. Cassandra loved him in a way she would never love anyone. Sam knew every thought and feeling that passed through her mind. She gave herself exclusively to him. She gave to him the very essence of her soul. When he left her, Cassandra was left with nothing. She was an empty shell. She waited for a commitment. Cassandra spent seven years with Sam waiting for him to make a decision. When the opportunity presented itself, Sam kept her waiting. Then using his best persuasive, courtroom voice he told her that "it would not be feasible." "It's not just us," he said. "We need to be responsible to our spouses, our children, our reputations in the community. Besides, I've decided to accept the position in Chicago and Kate is looking forward to the move."

So, he was gone. Cassandra endured the going-away parties for Kate and Sam. She smiled through all of them. Cassandra went through the motions of living. She drove the carpool, worked at the museum, played tennis, spent weekends at the Cape, and all the while she wished she were dead. She began timing the Tuesday-Thursday run of the New England Central, hoping to gather the courage to one day run her car right into the train. She imagined what it would be like; her new Lexus ramming a hopper-car filled with tons of coal. The air bag would attempt to save her, but all she could think of was flesh, canvas, blood, glass, metal, steel, and coal all meshing together. Then the hurt would be gone; she would not cry anymore.

There was a stir in the restaurant, heads turned, and Cassandra knew Sam was there. After all these years, he still could cause a stir. Cassandra looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked great, a bit more gray, a few pounds heavier, his face still handsome, but weathered from sailing, golf and probably his teenagers. Otherwise he was the same person, the man of her dreams, and she felt her heart leap. Sam approached the table giving her a bouquet of out-of-season snapdragons, sweet peas, and miniture gladiolus.

Cassandra stood up to greet him and accepted a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
"Been waiting long, love?"
"Yes. Five years too long."
And without a backward glance Cassandra walked through the crowd of diners and out the door. She would wait no more.

Literary Art Selection

Fountain by Lorenzo Williams

Friday Night

Eleven O'Clock...

He should be here.
How long ago since he called?
I left a place set for him.

Midnight...

I stare at the full moon.
I worry, but
Begin reading yesterday's paper.

Two...

I sleep between crying.
Will I ever look into his eyes,
Or feel his touch again?

Six-Thirty...

I open the door for the officers.
I weaken at word of my lover's accident.
"It was instant."

Monday--Noon...

Infidelity may be easier.
Christmas would have been nice.
The casket was closed.

--C.C. Jeancake

Literary Art Selection

Untitled by Michael Boasso

The Rebound

I didn't ask you to pull me into warm moist walls of
"before my being breathed the coolness of the world."

But you did it anyway.

I never asked you to pick up the pieces,
kiss the bruises, and lick clean the wounds
I hold close to me. I thought I was alive
with that struggle. You opened my arms
and crawled in to steal away, for a while,
my reality. I pulled up on my knees,
gained strength in my thighs. I stood up
and you were there to prop me.

I never asked you to,
but you did it anyway.

You called yourself a hero, a white knight,
a kissing prince waking me from a sleep
caused by a prince before. So, I open my eyes wide.
I see you hovering over me, smothering me,
resenting me for standing up and stepping back.
My arms move, but they are not around you.
You reach for me, but I can't hear you
and I don't see your pain.
You fall to your knees
and I walk away.

--Shonna L. McNair

Literary Art Selection

Cow by Sally Kirkland

Life in an English Novel

Nobody met anyone else's eye; it was very English.

--A.S. Byatt

Leonora enters the room, followed by
A two page summary of her personal history.
Sons and divorces, traumas, a list of lesbian lovers,
Glitter at her wrists and throat like so many links
Of jewelry. She turns her face in profile, and we
Hear all about the shape of her nose, the adjectives
That precisely capture the nature of her hair.
Her politics come clear to us, the subtle hues
Of her hopes and dreams are distinguished.
Her motivations make clear her actions
For the following chapters.

--John Lowery

Literary Art Selection

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Broken Ink

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