Issue 5: September 15, 2018
Sister Rosa said that the gates of hell flew open the night of Carina’s engagement to Eugene Baker, the American who came to town on Opening Day. Some of the old women said his real name was Eugenio Bacil (when he was young) but that is neither here nor there. It would not matter whether his name were Eugene or Eugenio or even Eugeniusz, because the Devil’s fork is mightier than Cupid’s bow. That’s what Rosa always says.
My father’s cousin, Bobby Burger, came home from Vietnam with a purple heart and black lungs. At least that’s what he told my dad each time he stopped by to see him.
“Sonny Boy. I’m back and thirsty,” he’d roar through the screen door at least twice a summer. I never understood why they called each other that name; Dad said it was just something that started when they were kids.
Grim stepped out of a warm bath. The unfurling of pink, close limbs into cold verticality jarred. The parts of life sat next to each other. She looked at her body in the mirror and took pleasure in imagining how someone else would view the cypress curves, the taut collarbones, the unexpected lushness of the ass. The desire for an observer used to worry her, spilling into notes in a small black journal, What good is it being beautiful if there’s no one to love my beauty? Why do I care? She had a more peaceful question now— What good are bodies at all?