Qua Literary and Fine Arts Magazine, Winter 2022

WINTER 2022

STAFF
Editor in Chief
Amanda Seney
Assistant Editors
Jina Bhagat
Steven Hrynkiw
Cecilia Warchol
QUA
UM
FLINT
Art & Design Director
Katelyn Stuck
Design Advisor
Andy Deck
L I T E R A R Y & F I N E A R T S
General Advisor
Dave Larsen
WINTER 2022

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Poetry
Primavera Imperatives 5
An Ode to Spring 8
Observing Senior Math Analysis 9
America is an old billboard 12
Head Up 13
The Signal 14
What Dustin Begets 16
a tuft of fur 17
In the Field 21
Pearls 22
The Parsonage 23
Saturday Noodle 24
Becoming Bonsai 25
Saturn’s Reign 27
Dreamer 28
Writing 29
Atlas 32
Chilly 37
The Great Inventions 38
When I am 40 and you are 4-39
Interview, Safe Passage 40
folding socks 41
Prose
My Northern Perspective 6
“9797” 18
Ask the Brook Trout 20
Night in Gethsemane 33
Visual Arts
Light in the Darkness-Cover, 7
“6” 10
Supernova 26
“11” 30
Contributors-42
Primavera
Imperatives
MOLLY STOVER
Wear the worn ones that are well-loved and grass-stained. Care for the
worms as the rains have left them unearthed. Be gentle with all but the
mud as you reacquaint yourself with a long-awaited rebirth. Remember the
guileless child with eyes wonder-wide. Listen to the new birds sing days-old,
age-old songs. Turn your face to the sun but don’t stare. It isn’t polite - to
Iris or Helios. Bless the heavens, above and below, for the mystery of what’s
suspended between and what grows the first green from the yester-grays.
Cast lots on the first blooms. Mind the too-soons. Pan’s Syringa, below and
among, now within mortal reach. Gather her spoils with mud-bathed,
newly-earthen hands. Sing your days-old, age-old refrains. Draw them out.
Sustaining refrains are meant for spring.
Love the living things.
Marian E. Wright Writing Center Spring Poetry Contest
Spring Prompt, 1st Place
4 | Table of Contents Poetry | 5

My Northern
Perspective
HANNAH RYDER
The story of my Michigan whistles through the season-dried oaks
and sings over the November waves of mighty, frigid Lake Superior outside
of Paradise. Its tale is told to the moon by wolves’ howling. The earth is
serenaded by the tapping of robins’ feet on pine needles, the slow paddle of
painted turtles in a calm pond.
The story is told and retold by the tannin-stained rivers cutting
across miles of dense forests. It’s communicated by the snort and stomp of
white-tailed deer concealed in their native woods. The story floats on clouds
of smoke rolling out of a chimney and tangoes to the chatter of red squirrels
high up in the trees outside of the village limits of Roscommon.
It twirls around a family gathered on a porch as the sun sets,
laughter buzzing alongside the hum of mosquitos. It pauses as snow falls
overnight, resting like a flannel blanket.
The story of my north is a symphony of human and nature
blending, balancing. It’s one that can’t always be put into words that do it
justice. But I am a child of the north, so I will tell its story.
LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
RA-LONDA SOUTHWELL
6 | Prose Visual Art | 7

An Ode to
Spring
MARKAYLA CLEMENTS
Observing Senior
Math Analysis
RENE RIBANT-AMTHOR
To the roses in full bloom on Second Ave - I’ve missed you
This winter has not been kind to me
Its cold has lingered in these bones for too long
I’m so glad the spring rain has brought you here to me
To the window daisies that dance to the buzzing song of the bees
Your happiness is contagious
Your sway has taught me what freedom looks like
To the fresh strawberries sunkissed by the sun
Being picked with sticky hands and smiles
You’re beautiful
To the children’s pitter patter in puddles
The height to their kites
Their laughter breaking the stillness of winter
A new season has begun
To the new love that has blossomed
Filled with new kisses and “ I love you’s”
May it always be a breathe of fresh air
To spring, My friend, I am so happy that you are here
I’ve missed you.
Marian E. Wright Writing Center Spring Poetry Contest
Spring Prompt, 2nd Place
Class begins with a warmup on the board.
Almost immediately I am lost in the lesson,
wandering through my mind, trying to recall
if I ever learned this in senior math class (I didn’t).
Her microphoned voice dances through the speakers
reaching my ears, transmitting a confidence
in me, making me believe I can figure out
binomial probability (I can’t).
She instructs the class to make their predictions.
I predict all math teachers are smart, but
she is greater than others in the table. She
gives space for her students to take risks,
“I’m interested to see how you approach that.”
And they do, they accept the power
embedded in their autonomy
and calculate at their own pace.
She limits their view of certain steps
in certain problems, which makes certain
the eventual expansion of their understanding.
It’s my job to call her out
and see her craft from all angles.
Together we wonder about the ego in others
who place more value on their mathematical minds
than their spirits as educators.
Write this in your notes,
The sum value of an extraordinary math teacher
cannot be determined by manipulating numbers.
Her worth does not exist in absolutes.
There is an unspoken variable, known only to her students
and those fortunate enough to observe her.
8 | Poetry Poetry | 9

“6”
CONER SEGREN
10 | Visual Art Visual Art |11

America is an old
billboard…
CONER SEGREN
America is an old billboard waiting to sell an ad. Driving in an old,
rattling Chevy impala. Big bench seats, worn leather, stuffing spilling out
like a wounded soldier. Spring of 1977, and passing by on a lonely roadside.
Homes shapeshifting into motels, diners into gas stations, people into cows.
Buildings worn out, burned out, hollowed, make way for weeds, people. In
the rearview mirror, you see your friend the French Philosopher splayed out
in the backseat. My god, was there a war here, he says whenever we pass
the crumbling shell of a house foreclosed upon or factory that’s gone back
to nature. Giant grey slabs erected like tombstones. A mile passes before
we see another house. He asks, how does anyone know each other with this
much space between them? In a gas station parking lot, the weeds choke the
pavement, spit up like phlegm from the heart of the world. Look back, that
smiling villain with Judas eyes in the rearview mirror. Lights a black
cigarette and the ash rains heavy as snow. The smoke dances in delicate
curves rubbing your eyes, eyes weeping for hundreds of singing voices
belonging to no mouth in particular. Then suddenly the singing turns to
laughter and your weeping along with it, a bitter laughter like the sound of a
coin tossed at a faceless man laid down in the gutter that coin landing on the
pavement with the sound of fate come home at last.
Head Up
JOHN RIGGINS
See my dad was Jamaican told me everything was irie/
If life is late giving you blossoms it’s because gardening you a field of ivies/
So just smile and I know a lot of patience comes with that/
See life will give you L’s but it’s about the comeback/
But I’m tough for her I love her, life’s a gift from the sky/
And everyday I live for her I live as if I never will die/
Because I know that if the rains stops and everything was dry/
She would cry just so I could drink the tears from her eyes/
See you have to stand for something or you will for whatever/
In these United States we’re so divided, why don’t we all come together/
Like we’re supposed to be, you roll with me not picking up no groceries/
Just flow with me and hopefully, when done reading this poetry/
You’ll be how you’re supposed to be and roar just like a lion/
Because this life calls for tough skin but your fur will survive the fire/
So walk immortal to the flame, pain is temporary gain/
And while you’re reading this, bow your head and say a prayer for all Ukraine/
See if Zelensky can crack a smile in the face of Russian missiles/
So can you in whatever circumstance of whatever is trying to hit you/
Let it miss you, see this Jamaican man I guess he knows a thing or two/
I guess to remind you when you’re alone that someone always stands with you/
-John Riggins
Go blue, pray for Ukraine
Marian E. Wright Writing Center Spring Poetry Contest
Spring Prompt, 3rd Place
12 | Poetry Poetry | 13

The Signal
CONER SEGREN
I.
Gone now is the sun,
and all gray again
is the lot,
once having the spark of life,
cloaked with exhaust fumes
and the shrill cry of car alarms.
Mist and cold choke the air
And coat my skin
like a thick wax.
The skin that is thin and fragile.
Less a protection
than a soft film, akin
to the skin on a soup course
of an abandoned meal.
II.
Passing now under the glittery marquees
of cafés and theatres
hedging against the encroaching blackness
of dusk.
No one is on the street.
Only a few voices leak from the café and the bar
as I stroll down the sidewalk
with a reflection of myself
for company.
“Keep pace, fucker!” I mutter
to myself and my reflection
seems cross in return.
I mix with televisions, compasses in pawn shops,
and fashionably dressed mannequins in sheer, lacy dress wear
and perfectly tailored suits.
I am confident and well dressed and happy
everywhere I look.
III.
My twin and I stop to light a cigarette
ashes flail in the wind
and cling to my body
like desperate lovers.
The slapping of rubber
on the brick-lined street
is enough to disrupt my vanity.
Come to the crosswalk
and a woman stands diagonal to me
across the intersection.
She wears a long, flowing skirt, fiery oranges and turquoise wrapped around flowers
and her hair is hidden in a silk, summery scarf.
A few wisps hang liberated over her forehead,
clustered enough to see: the same deep red as her lip rouge.
I glance at her and she at me, then we turn away.
A stolen glance and a polite smile.
Why must I fall in love with anyone who shows me
a minimum of kindness?
The signal of some impending catastrophe.
Neon angels come to call
at the crosswalk.
My eyes squint though
there is no sun.
My cigarette is halfway burned.
We don’t make eye contact again
as we pass in the night
under the harshly illuminated streetlamps.
Tobacco grows in the ground,
therefore, it is healthy.
Death comes from the earth.
Life is the human invention,
a resistance.
Dead things give way to gravity.
Leaves fall away from the trees
planted in the sidewalk.
IV.
The small, concentrated heat of the cigarette
begins to burn my hand.
The smell of burning tobacco mixed with flesh
fills my nose.
But I do not mind for a moment,
until I flick it away into a storm drain.
Dead leaves comingle and fall away with the ashes,
and my feet crackle on the pavement
as I fall vertically through the town,
lost in a fantasy of night.
14 | Poetry Poetry | 15

What Dustin Begets
PRISCILLA ATKINS
Dustin’s obit begets daughter
Grace. Grace, fourteen, begets
her mother Holly (they share
Holly’s last name). Tricky
to track Holly (Spokeo doesn’t
know “Zoe” goes by “Holly”).
Because I’ve fallen for Dustin—
thirty-four, mop of bangs,
brown eyes that’ve seen light
from the bottom of things—
I’m predisposed to dis Holly.
(Why? She and Dustin are
obviously no longer together.)
(Hmm: were they ever?)
(Long enough to make Grace!)
But once Holly and I “meet”
(face-to-facebook) I fall for
impish autodidact Holly and her
begettings. Hard work. Sweet
friends. Six years ago she lost
infant twins. The way she grieves—
celebrates. Here, her pal Matthew
(deceased):
I made you fried tofu several
times a decade-ish ago in 2008
when we were working on the
Alice White wine rainbow display
when I lived on Neil. Those were
some of the best times of my life.
Friend, I will miss you forever.
So now we add improv Matthew
(Second City trained) to our trove.
Can’t resist: Click—Matt, you’re
it:
The crowd seemed to like my
set last night. Wish I would have
filmed it. It was all about telling
the jokes that I’m not supposed
to tell because I’m a straight
male. In our current climate
I’m almost only “allowed” to
tell dick jokes, specifically
small dick jokes, and how that
sucks because it keeps me
from trying to understand what
it is to be every type of human.
All that, hidden under a bunch
of dick jokes.
Dustin, Holly, Matthew—I love
this whole tribe. Holly eats tofu,
laughs where I do. June 6, Dustin’s
last (and most verbose) post lets
loose after George Floyd’s murder:
I’ve been on facebook all day
and seen some things, and
have some stuff to say, I know
it’s not going to fix anything
but half you fuckers need to
stop speaking for people
the other half of you need to
stop “well what about when
this person did this where
were you” aka just shut the
fuck up and listen. Let people
mourn and have their time
when shit like this happens.
Two days later . . . gone. Don’t
know the details. (Weeks old
repartee r.e. trying to lose weight
and depression is too risky to
parse.) Scrolling backwards
through time, Dustin, who
worked out West, then Vermont,
is Greyhounding it (beloved dog
in tow!) home to central Illinois.
Christmas with Grace at Holly’s
Grandma Zoe’s (ah, Holly, here’s
your first name). Grace, Dustin,
Grandma Zoe, Holly—Matthew—
people who’ve never met—all
of us in a crisscross of molecules.
Dear Dustin, I hereby beget you.
a tuft of fur
JACOB BLUMNER
a tuft of fur
all that remains
of a story
16 | Poetry Poetry | 17

9797
HANNAH RYDER
I call it my home when it’s not even mine, and there’s no way it ever
could be, not how I remember it. The Fox River Club is membership-based,
but only to men, and has been since its start in 1940. My father bought into
the Seney, Michigan hunting club in the early seventies. When deer or
pheasant season isn’t in full swing, the camp transforms into a rural getaway
for its members and their families. The original preserved farmhouse sits
near the road, clothed in fading, butter yellow siding that matches the pole
barn and the generator house.
Neatly clipped grass marches up to the fence that lines dusty, rocky
Old Seney Road. The hundreds of acres that sprawl out behind the buildings
are kept untamed. One of five camps on the eight-mile-long seasonal road,
the Fox River Club has no signs save for the standard issue blue address sign
with “9797” and “Germfask Township” etched onto it. From the road, it looks
like another hunting cabin in the middle of dense forest, but I know it to be
more.
It’s hard to tell if I’ll ever smell it again after this old camp falls to
its demise, a failing foundation the worst of its multiple problems. I probably
won’t. Eighty-one years of memories, ingrained in the hand-built maple
interior, can’t be recreated. The smell I revel in when I cross the threshold is
unique, a mix of lives well lived and rich Michigan soil. It’s hard to see what
will become of my camp, what will become of me. Will we both be knocked
down? Will we remain standing?
It’s hard to know what the wind will blow our way; it’s hard to know
if that same wind will separate us. But I trust in this calm summer breeze to
bring the smell of the Fox River Club to me, the place I always had but never
did.
The smell of home.
For over a decade, I’ve driven the three hours north to the camp
with my dad, but soon it will be the last time. His age is making him
question his desire to hunt deer, and I’m beginning a career. The only way
I’ll be able to keep my beloved camp with me is by remembering the smell—
earthy, aged, and warm. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever breathed in before,
more refreshing than mountain air, more comforting than freshly washed
sheets.
It can be described by the many ant bombs that rarely rid the place
of their intended target, the rusted rat traps, dead flies, and the slightly
charred scent of the deer mounts, one dating as far back as 1944, thick
with years of fireplace smoke. It’s the laughter, late nights, bourbon, deep
conversation, gas lamps and their intense heat. It’s the years of grease on
the ancient stove. It’s the generations of men with a shared passion, spent
rounds, animal blood, and chilly winter days.
It’s made of arguments, outdated car magazines, pine trees,
generator fuel, warm engines, fresh ink on lined pages, butane, the
effortless curl of smoke from cigars past. It’s the Fox River’s quick current
and its brook trout, mosquitos’ hunger, maps outlining territory, old but
resilient bunk beds, the burnt skeletons of chairs in the field kept company
by wildflowers. It’s coffee percolating on the stove, mice scratching, Sandhill
cranes calling.
18 | Prose
Prose |19

Ask The
Brook Trout
ROBERT VIVIAN
How to sunrise and sunset more colorful as human dawn and radiant the rest
of your days, wet and shining with tears as the brook trout are lifted writhing
out of the current in terror only thunder and lightning know and maybe the
prophets choking with hot coals in their mouths, bask back and reflect the
glory of creation from your open dripping gaga mouth, ask the brook trout is
the water in my heart clean enough to live in, is it see through to forever and
also partaking of forever, ask not when will I die but how will the delivery of
awe take me in maybe the soft opening of a flower circa always the
gobsmacked moment, ask the brook trout, wonder the brook trout quietly
aloud even if you faith the answer, what kind of shining, wondrous love
made you? May I bow down before that icon also perhaps what tender
feeling, umileniye, they say in Russia, umileniye, or rained upon by the tears
of saints—and as a friend once said, If you even look wrong at a brook trout
it will die so sensitive are they, ask the brook trout, wonder the square tail,
murmur an obscure northern Michigan stream where all trembling is holy
and the tiny birds know you as their finally recovered own back to second
childhood, ask the brook trout what else is there but beauty, beauty, beauty
manifest galore all around except for manmade strip malls, talk to the brook
trout, shadow box with them, is there truly any more glorious colors in all the
world, wormhole and vermiculation, not even Vermeer could paint this, I am
going down in sundown myself, I am on fire and glowing all an-ember, ask
the brook trout about lemons, about vodka tonics, about what it means to be
a recluse, an almost holy fool, to grow out your hair and eat roots,
umileniye again, somewhere my former Russian student Elizaveta is smiling
near Vladivostok, she’s sitting in one of my classes not for credit but for
wonder, the most ideal student I ever had whose ancestry was native
Siberian, somewhere deep inside I am grooving a holy 4 weight, I am using a
bow and arrow cast because there’s no other way to deliver the immaculate
fly, umileniye once more and all around, ask and stutter the brook trout, dare
to murmur a cold, clear stream sinuous as a woman’s body, tell the brook
trout about your demons and watch them evaporate in the hot summer air,
watch the brook trout dart for cover, for holy structure, for those fallen limbs
that are redeemed by their hiding, by their instinctual fear and trembling
again, let the brook trout lead you back to hope and wonder again, back to
first innocence and the baptism of awe, ask the brook trout finally what any
human life is made for except this, trembling before the wet and shimmering
beauty of this world so quick to get away, so beautiful it lasts forever.
In The Field
BENJAMIN SMITH
In the moments leading up to sex,
(Or something of the sort) we are poised,
Balanced on a cliff of civility and,
Tipping, we flood from your Volkswagen
Into rural air, thick and black, gnats attending.
Fitting to find myself low amongst
Twigs, calves tapped by stalks,
Grass-vermin genuflecting
Toward some dunce as my spit
Drags like a cord.
Selfishly you spill. I withdraw,
Easing back on my haunches thinking
This must be beauty, truly;
Reticent in the weeds with
A veil of mosquitos,
A mouthful of stars.
20 | Prose Poetry | 21

Pearls
After “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver
MARY ANNA KRUCH
You do not have to be good
walk ashamed on your knees
through a hundred apologies
you don’t believe.
You have only to let the animal
of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about your longings
perceived by some dead at our age
and I will tell you about when he leaned in
took my hand to his lips eyes squeezed tight
and I imagined us safe in a fine net near the sea
our conversation seared into memory
where tears of the gods trickled
from autumn’s warmest breath
and I closed my eyes for the forehead kiss
or slight peck on the lips
while inside
The Parsonage
PRISCILLA ATKINS
In addition to the musty, thimble-waisted, altogether impossibly
small dresses (that they wore as adults, mind you)
on display in The Girls’ Room,
what sticks is the Reverend Patrick Brontë’s humble
narrow bed
(I mean, that bed was small!),
which, the caption informs us, the reverend shared—
for God’s sake—
with his grown son.
Branwell, twenty-something, slinking back to the manse, post-affair
avec the mistress in whose home he’d served as tutor to the child;
the years of drink and drugs, evenings
at ye ole Black Bull . . . .
Father and son, did one crest the other’s lull? Sleep
in shifts? Chat? (Piss?)
Customs were different then. Still: where did the legs go?
Alas: no one left to tell.
In an academic grove, one could cheerfully serve as scholar to your smells.
burned a fervent wish
for fires to be relit
where my mouth would open
like an oyster in its bed
his tongue rushing in like the sea
searching for one perfect pearl.
22 | Poetry Poetry | 23

Saturday Noodle
PRISCILLA ATKINS
But was sleep pilled, or legitimate?
The crow on the pine’s got Kafka caught in his throat.
Spit it out, man.
There’s something pinched about Nadine Gordimer.
Or maybe it’s me.
I think she’s just old. And wearing a red coat.
Hip hip hooray! She has a relish tray!
Sardines will show you how they want to be cut. (Just ask.)
The elementary classmate’s house where all the kids slept in one bed.
Sometimes one night is all it takes.
Becoming Bonsai
VICKY DAWSON
That color works for you, in a shoulder-to-the-wheel sort of way.
OMG: Karen Carpenter’s father speaking of his daughter’s death—channeling
W.C. Fields.
Dare you not to bite something.
In an artist’s hands
Copper wire twists and turns, shaped with an eye
To mimic nature’s beauty–
Beauty crafted by instinct to survive
The most inhospitable of spaces.
Yet, so small. So complete.
An artistic rendition
Sits in the palm of my hand.
I marvel and wonder.
I too must learn how to do this.
24 | Poetry Poetry | 25

Saturn’s
Reign
KATRENIA G. BUSCH
The mountain goat was found to ride
The Sun across the sky
Though—upwards it was said to climb
Moving back the hand of time
Birds were found between the clouds
Dividing the time between
The sun and moon above the ram who crowds
The earth with visions unforeseen
The showers of Neptune fall and bring
The cycle of time that’s hurled
Yet— the moon— in days be counting
The order and times upon the world
Eye of providence, fates and destiny
Androgynous in its essence and being
For when Saturn changes its course and journey
These words will bear more meaning
“SUPERNOVA”
CONER SEGREN
26 | Visual Art Poetry | 27

Dreamer
CONNOR BRYANT-OTT
Write Again
ALEXZANDER KYLE
I sleep so little
And yet,
I dream a lot.
Shaping friends on cracked ceilings
Casting shadows on peeling walls
Painting ideas in my subconscious
Sewing paper wings on crippled
thoughts
Writing of my life to be on crumpled
paper
I can keep on living
With a little sleep.
But empty of dreams,
I wouldn’t exist at all.
A rush of emotions,
A simple feeling.
Forced by the ear,
Forced by the self.
Regardless of your reasons,
The page is blank.
Fill it as you will,
Fill it with love and romance,
Fill it with anger and vengeance.
Perhaps a bit of laughter,
Perhaps a bit of sadness.
Regardless of your choices,
The page is blank.
So pick up your pen,
Open your keys,
And run your hands.
To build a character,
To build a story,
To build a world.
Marian E. Wright Writing Center Spring Poetry Contest
Writing Prompt, 1st Place
Marian E. Wright Writing Center Spring Poetry Contest
Writing Prompt, 2nd Place
28 | Poetry Poetry| 29

“11”
CONER SEGREN
30 | Visual Art Visual Art | 31

Atlas
RENE RIBANT-AMTHOR
Something in me
recognizes
something in you;
maybe the slight hunch of your shoulders?
Curled? Retreating? Resisting?
no- “enduring”
the weight of the world!
When I was in college
a quirky oracle with wide, bugged out eyes
hunted me down at a party to ask (or proclaim):
“Why do you always look like you’re carrying
the weight of the world on your shoulders?”
I didn’t feel the heaviness then,
but she predicted the punishment.
Like Atlas, condemned to hold up
the celestial heavens for eternity,
we two are damned with the burden
of our own bad choices.
Every inch of your flesh and muscle
lay on top of my body, triggering
some familiar, mythical osmosis.
Your heavy
absorbs my heavy,
or mine absorbs yours,
and for a few brief moments-
I feel free.
But the sky over my world
and the sky over yours
would come crashing down
without our backs to brace.
We resume our positions,
holding up the minutiae,
at mountain’s edge,
overlooking the Sea of
Could Have Beens.
Night in
Gethsemane
CONER SEGREN
He came out from under the doorway of an apartment complex
after the rainfall slowed to a drizzle. Passing cars made shushing sounds on
the wet asphalt. The young man weaved through the traffic to get to the other
side. An all-night coney island cast its light over the sidewalk. As he went by,
the patrons, framed in red-upholstered booths under pictures of Marilyn and
Elvis, seemed to be looking at him, chatting about him, casting aspersion out
with the malevolence of the fluorescent lights. Chilled winds blew in through
the high rises, invading the thin lining of his coat, as he finally came to a payphone.
He started to pull the door closed, but the track caught and the draft
continued to come in. Rather than fight, he simply deposited the change and
pulled his collar together. He didn’t doubt the woman would answer, until,
sure enough, she did.
-Hel-lo, said a voice that was aggrieved and clearly in the middle of
something.
-Hey, Elaine. Quinn still there?
-No, he left about 10 minutes ago. A television blared in the background.
Elaine was always in the middle of something when she answered
the phone. Or at least her tone made you think she was.
-So, you’re alone?
-Me and Harvey the Rabbit, she said
32 | Poetry Prose | 33

NIGHT IN GETHSEMANE
NIGHT IN GETHSEMANE
-Would you cut it out, Lainey. Look, what should I tell him? He
pinched the bridge of his nose.
-Tell him nothing. Your only job is to send him off full of rum, with
good feelings.
-You’re better equipped than me for good feelings.
-Y’know, I’m missing my show right now, so if you called just to get
wise…
-No, he paused and searched through the diner and the errant faces
of the people inside for a friendly face. Can I get you anything? Any strange
food cravings. Tuna on rye bread, with pickles and tomatoes.
-Goodbye, Jimmy, she said. The receiver clicked, and the dial tone
rang like death through his ear. A tap on the glass gave him a start.
-Do I see a stranger? a voice said. Jimmy turned to see Quinn with
his face pressed into the glass. Jimmy stepped out into an extended hand, the
same way he always greeted his friends. They say strangers are just friends
you haven’t met yet.
-Horsehsit, Jimmy said with a small smile.
-Probably, Quinn said, reaching into the breast pocket of Jimmy’s
shirt for his cigarettes. He put two in his mouth and lit both. So how goes it?
-Forget about me, Jimmy said. This is your night. He came out
of the phone booth. Quinn was leaning against the phone booth, all smiles
across his face, but his gaze followed Jimmy like a painting. As long as
they’ve known each other Jimmy never could guess what he was thinking at
any given moment. He stood back and took him in.
Quinn wore a tattered field jacket over a rumbled green shirt, tie tucked
between the buttons, with a book in his pocket. A few days still to go before
meeting the barber, he decided to let his hair grow out, and tonight
especially, he looked like he just woke up. Jimmy seemed more respectable,
more military—short hair and a perfectly smooth face—but tonight he looked
sallow and wan in the night mist. Jimmy took one of the cigarettes that were
lit, without uttering a word. Instead, he sniffed and motioned toward the
diner.
-Forget that, Quinn said. Let’s go someplace darker.
Outside they stood, a place called Churchill’s, a bar with a rustic
luster, everything polished black, except the floorboards faded from years
under countless pairs of shoes. A local art exhibition was happening in the
background; sleek, realist sketch paintings of faceless women reclined in
divans or ottomans, dresses alternately black, dark orange, and marigold.
Through a proscenium arch to the left was a sparse dining room with tables
around the perimeter. Quinn turned right, away from the shivering drunks
leaning towards the light reflected off the bottles like it was a warm fire. They
settled in an alcove elevated above the floor, with a table staring out the window.
Pedestrians passed under the string of lights that threaded the arches
and the traffic signals over the road. Jimmy thought how they must seem like
store mannequins to the people outside. A display seeming to say, Look at
these two having the most wonderful evening of their lives.
-This is a fancy kind of place, Quinn said, the ketchup comes in
glass bottles.
Whispered emotions echoed faint in their ears. Tattooed, boozy
belladonnas came through flapping doors to collect orders. Jimmy produced
two more cigarettes, and Quinn lit them as their waitress, a brown beauty
with a harshness around the mouth from age, came to ask what they were
drinking. Quinn produced a worn copy of Tarantula, while Jimmy ordered
for them both.
-He wants a Greyhound; I’ll have a Gin and Tonic. When she left
Quinn spoke without looking up from his pages.
-That’s a weak order.
-Yours is purple, Jimmy said.
-Cocktails are allowed to be fruity. Listen to this: The Censor in a
twelve-wheel semi, stopping in for donuts & pinching the waitress/ he likes
his women raw with syrup/ he has his mind set on becoming a famous
soldier.
-I don’t see waitress on the menu.
The heated air around them sat squat, and the overheads were too
slow to move it. The metronome whir of the fans and the voices of the people
quickly faded into the background. They were in a small room to themselves
now, and the soft, stilted sounds of the saxophone moan over the speakers,
and the leering, drunken johns crunching pretzels and picking at oil under
their fingernails may as well have come from underneath them. Then, at last,
the drinks came.
-I wish I could write poetry like that, said Quinn.
-Not so much poetry as heroin spasms in a notebook.
-Naw, it’s more than that. Quinn’s face grew long, turning to the
side to look out the window.
-Is that why you enlisted? Because you thought you wouldn’t have
the head for that?
-You know to tell you the truth, I hadn’t even considered it, Quinn
said, tracing his mouth.
-I don’t think that’s true, Jimmy replied.
-Maybe I just wanted some free time. There’s no war on, and I
could shave my head and sit under an apple tree, and become an ascetic, get
enlightened.
They sat in silence as the drinks passed. Second-shift crowds from
some local factory started to trickle in. Men with beards, banging on the bar
stools to whatever tune existed only in their head. In the shadowed light,
Jimmy could see the sharp angles of his face underneath his facial hair, his
eyes which darted up and around the room, as if some emaciated dog. Quinn
leaned in close.
-Y’know something… between you and me, he said as he wagged
his fingers to illustrate his point. But I think Elaine’s been, y’know, fucking
around with some guy. Jimmy didn’t blink or move any other part of his
face, for that matter. After a moment he took a drink, and spoke almost at a
whisper.
-What makes you say that?
34 | Prose Prose | 35

NIGHT IN GETHSEMANE
-The usual adjectives. Quiet, distant, angry. And also, the fact that
we hadn’t slept together in 2 months when she was already starting to show.
And we haven’t slept together again since.
Jimmy made a small half-grimace, half-smile. Suddenly, Quinn
burst into laughter. It came out so loud, the other barflies began to turn their
heads. Jimmy snapped his fingers in front of Quinn’s face to bring him back.
-Y’know who it was don’t you? Quinn said, his breath short and
shallow.
-Who?
-Alex Glazer. That beautiful, blue-eyed, Aryan bastard.
-Is that so? Jimmy brought his glass to his lips and let the liquor
run through. The ashtray between them was overflowing from chainsmoking.
The waitress came to replace it and Quinn simply looked at the
floor. After a while, he stood up, turned out his pockets for his money, rebuffing
Jimmy’s attempt to pay.
Outside there was a shock of air reflected cold off the ground. Quinn
moved to the alleyway leaning a hand against the alley wall, vomiting then
collapsing to the ground.
-Jimmy?
-Yeah?
-I know Elaine was supposed to drive me there tomorrow. But I
need you to do it. His fingers went pink from the cold. He picked up a pebble
and tried to break it.
-Okay.
-College-boy. Get rid of learning and there will be no anxiety. He
tilted his head back against the wall. They awaited in a silence drawn out like
a dagger, with a curious fear, for the rain to become a downpour, but at the
moment it was only a small drizzle. Do you want to know the truth? I never
learned how to compromise… He breathed in and out. Y’know, we should go
slash Alex’s tires.
They sat in a protracted silence for a few minutes more. What
neither could have expected was that in a few months, after finishing basic
training, Quinn would decide to swim with from one side of a lake to the
other with some other newly baptized servicemen, and misjudge the lake’s
diameter, and find he hadn’t the strength to continue to the other side, and
drown.
But for now, they sat in the alley behind Churchill’s. Fading ink-blot
sky, scummy border of polluting city lights in the background. A door opened
down the alley, and into the stains of liquid garbage a baker threw the aged
crullers. A rain-smothered scent of butter and yeast blew down to them in
the breeze as they sat, trying to find the right words.
CHILLY
TERRI WATROUS BERRY
Smoke rises
from the roof
across the way,
and the way the
chimney belches
makes the place
like an engine
stopped and waiting
at the station
for the time to
shriek
and move on
down the line.
Homes pass,
one to another,
walls yawn
indifference,
doors open
as easily for
you or for
just anyone
who has and
comes to hold
the transient key.
Old Eleanor
next door,
not next door
anymore.
Today she lies
face-up
in her last
cupboard out
at Roselawn,
a week ago
her bricks
breathed too
into the frigid
sky, today
they stand cold,
coldly waiting . . .
36 | Prose Poetry | 37

When I am 40 and you are 4
AMY CONGER
The moment you were harvested through my abdomen
a poem
was planted
in my heart
April and snow
I did the math
about your growth
When I am 40
and you are 4
The Great Inventions
ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE
The invention of moonlight was a secret kept under an owl’s wing.
The invention of night was managed by the trees who needed some shade themselves.
The invention of lightning gave thunder ancestors.
The invention of icicles gave the sun something to play with.
The invention of breath started with a small gasp of surprise.
The invention of lakes let fish breathe a sigh of relief.
Even phosphorescence bubbled in half-light.
The invention of love was an accident that couldn’t be reversed.
The invention of whistling, pioneered by birds, gave men a way to express joy
when they think they are alone.
The invention of cats provided everyone with something to love, except birds.
The invention of the rheumy eye let old people cry all the time without tears.
The invention of crumbs let us know it was okay to fall apart.
The invention of words put experience in our mouths
and each sentence took us one step further from the land.
The invention of the sundial introduced abstract thought to the garden.
It will have been five years
since I read that Harvard study
that said avocados
would help me make you
since your father
began to inject my muscles
with a sticky oil fertilizer
you a poppy seed
you a kidney bean
you a plum
and that Thanksgiving
we would feel you
for the first time
kick as you cooked
a curlicued turkey
wattling in the womb
we would move the treadmill
into the garage
and hang a bunny on the wall
I dangled carrots over my head
until March
A single soul inhabiting two bodies
feeling like a beautiful pig
it makes so much sense that you are the sun
born brave as a wild boar
now I am 40
and you are 4
38 | Poetry Poetry | 39

Folding
Socks
Interview,
Safe Passage
JACOB BLUMNER
folding socks
all that remain
are mine
ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE
I don’t normally dress this way, but I had only a few moments
to pack though I have been ready for days, all my life, really.
We never trusted them. It seems silly to wear a fur coat, but it
was my mothers. I needed her arms around me. I wear many
layers and all my pockets stuffed with handkerchiefs and socks
for the hundreds of little emergencies, mine and others, on this
journey. I’m glad I have these heavy shoes. My husband made
fun of me. He stayed behind, to fight. These shoes. Not
glamorous but practical. Put that on my headstone, eh?
40 | Poetry Poetry | 41

CONTRIBUTORS
In order of appearance
Molly Stover
I live in Saginaw with my spouse and our two pets, Koda (dog) and Lilo (cat).
I am a nursing student and will be starting the BSN program in the fall. My
interests include animals, listening to music of all kinds, songwriting/poetry,
piano playing, traveling, binging good (arguable if you ask my wife) shows,
and collecting useless, fun tidbits of knowledge (my mind is a lint trap). I
am logical and down-to-earth but I also don’t shy away from fun/outlandish
musings. I love to laugh and enjoy the laughter of others. I always put my
shopping cart back in the cart corral. Mom raised a decent human.
Hannah Ryder
Hannah Ryder holds an MFA from Savannah College of Art & Design. Her
work appears in Great Lakes Review and Port City Review. Find more at
hannahryder.com.
Ra-Londa Southwell
My first love was art; drawing, painting, writing, using whatever I could find
to create something unique or beautiful. Professionally, I work as a nurse,
but those are still my favorite hobbies today. This painting had emotional
significance for me as well, which I attempted to capture in the title.
Markayla Clements
Hey! My name is Markayla Clements and I’m currently pursuing my
bachelor’s in Nursing this semester. I am a 24-year-old Flint native and love
our city. I love the emerging rustle and bustle the city has gained. This new
creative space has been a solace for me during this tough time the world has
endured. I have been writing/ performing poetry for a few years now.
Storytelling is one of my favorite ways to learn and connect with the world
around me. Besides writing, I enjoy the ins and outs of the Film world,
photography, music, collecting manga/ anime, and most of all sharing a good
meal with friends. I’m so honored to have my poem featured this semester.
I hope it encourages people to stop and enjoy the small things in life. A new
beginning is here. Thank you.
Rene Ribant-Amthor
Rene Ribant-Amthor recently became a Doctor of Education through the
University of Michigan-Flint. She is a high school assistant principal in
Macomb County, MI. When she is not trying to make the world a better place
through education, Rene enjoys spending time with her children, traveling,
and writing.
Coner Segren
Born in Flint, Michigan. Graduated from Mott Community College with an
Associates in Liberal Arts in 2018. Then attended University of
Michigan-Flint where he graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Philosophy in
2021. Journalism previously published in East Village Magazine.
John Riggins
I’ve always had a passion for poetry, a simple beat would be the recipe for
me Pulling out the notepad and writing some words down. I’ll say my biggest
influences are my family (Especially my late grandfather) and my former
saxophone teacher Ms. Dale who passed away years ago. I always promised
I would write a poem, or at least do a song in their honor And also, stand
with the people of Ukraine. Poetry is art, it gives people mental & emotional
support, I call it medicine. Always, keep your head up!
With love,
John Riggins
Priscilla Atkins
Priscilla Atkins, raised in central Illinois, has lived in Massachusetts,
California and Hawaii. These days she reads and frets and teaches in
Michigan. In addition to poems in journals, she has published The Café of
Our Departure (Sibling Rivalry Press) and Drinking the Pink (Seven Kitchens
Press).
Jacob Blumner
Jacob Blumner is a teacher and writer living in Flint, Michigan. His haiku
have appeared in numerous publications including Frogpond, Bloo Outlier
Journal, Wales Haiku Journal, and Failed Haiku. When not hugging trees or
taking his dog into the woods, he enjoys spending time with his family.
Robert Vivian
RV’s latest book, co-edited with Joel Peckham, is Wild Gods: The Ecstatic In
Contemporary Poetry & Prose.
42 | Contributors Contributors | 43

Benjamin Smith
Benjamin Smith is a current UM-Flint student graduating this semester with
a Bachelor of Arts. He was previously on the staff of Qua as Assistant Poetry
Editor and, later, Poetry Editor. His work has been published in Temenos
Literary Journal, the Best Emerging Poet series for the state of Michigan,
and other publications.
Mary Anna Scenga Kruch
Mary Anna Scenga Kruch supervises student teachers and leads a writing
group. Her publications include We Draw Breath from the Same Sky (2019)
and Grace Notes: A Memoir in Poetry & Prose (2021). Recent poetry appears
in Ovunque Siamo, and Peninsula Writers and is forthcoming in Wayne
Literary Review and Red Wolf Journal.
Vicky Dawson
Vicky Dawson—writer, mother, and nature lover. Also, a novice wire crafter
who fell in love with creating crystal trees. Now, she has a tiny forest of
gemstone trees scattered throughout the house. So, she decided, why not
transform the experience into poetry, too.
Terri Watrous Berry
Terri Watrous Berry’s poetry has appeared for over thirty-five years in
anthologies and journals, most recently House of Zolo’s Journal of
Speculative Literature’s volume on climate change, Wising Up’s
anthology regarding Adult Children, Oprelle’s collection of their Master’s
Contest finalists, and Syncopation Literary Journal’s upcoming issue on Ages
and Changes.
Elizabeth Kerlikowske
Elizabeth Kerlikowske’s new chapbook, The Vaudeville Horse: Prose Poems,
will be out soon from Etchings Press. She lives in Kalamazoo and is past
president of Friends of Poetry and The Poetry Society of Michigan. Her work
has recently appeared in sleet, MSU Short Edition Home and Passager. She
walks, watches, and remembers.
Amy Conger
Amy Conger is a writer living in Michigan.
Katrenia G. Busch
Katrenia G. Busch is an entertainment writer for Heart of Hollywood Magazine,
journal reviewer for The American Psychological Association and her
works have appeared in Westward Quarterly, Bloom Magazine, The Trouvaille
Review, 50 Give or Take, Flora Fiction among others. She also runs a
local neighborhood watch in her community.
Connor Bryant-Ott
Hey y’all! My name is Connor, and I am a student at UM-Flint through the
Grand Blanc Early College program, with a Mathematics major and an
Economics minor. In my spare time, you can find me writing poetry,
listening to music and songwriting, or spending time with some friends. I
hope everybody’s having a great semester!
Alexzander Kyle
Alexzander Kyle is an aspiring psychiatrist. Writing a simple poem is his way
of getting a bit of stress out. As well as a way to add creativity and enjoyment
back into writing when most often it’s tied to work or school.
44 | Contributors Contributors | 45

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