Cover
Table
of Contents
Editor's
Notes
Donations
Submission
Guidelines
Website
Stories &
Essays
'57 Chevy
_ By
Gary Moshimer
A
Visit to India From America...
_ By
Shubha Venugopal
Calista
Flockhart and the MySpace Hoax
_ By
Michael Frissore
Recollections and Revelations
_ By
Elizabeth Harbaugh
Springtime Visits
_ By
Phyllis Link
Stupendous Stew
_ By
Malerie Yolen-Cohen
The Genius
_ By
Ray Templeton
The Stranger Below
_ By
Sam Vargo
Truant
_ By
Louise Norlie
Vacation
_ By
Dan Devine
Vegetarian Rage
_ By
John A. Ward
What Might Pass Between Them
_ By
Alexandra Leake
Poetry
A Glutton For Truth
_ By
Richard Fein
A Question of Proper Form
_ By
Richard Fein
Boiler Man
_ By
Leland Jamieson
Horizons
_ By
Davide Trame
Lioness In Miniature
_ By
Grace M. Murray
Outdone
_ By
Pete Lee
Real Life Elocution
_ By
Richard Fein
Rewriting An Ending
_ By
Rumit Pancholi
September
_ By
Tim Shell
Seven Ways of Looking at a Full Moon
_ By
Naiya Wright
Shalom
_ By
Jeanne Hugoe-Matthews
Sideways
_ By
Kristine Ong Muslim
Spirit
_ By
Patrick Frank
The Empty Spaces After You
_ By
Rumit Pancholi
Thesaurus
_ By
Ed Higgins
Uncle Zebulon
_ By
J.R. Salling
Art
& Photography
Dora Calo
Robert
Carter
Noah
Erkes
Andrew Patsalou
Saulius
Filip Wierzbicki
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|
Rewriting
An Ending
By
Rumit Pancholi
The night of my 22nd, I dried out a torn Polaroid
I saved
of Adam and me.
Wet, this picture of us
at sixteen, poised
for a kiss, our bodies
awaiting
the letting up of a storm, the cool shudder after
a firm handshake.
“Meet your Aunt
Kalliya,”
(who’d wag her finger
at me for no reason).
“She’ll never let you come out when we send you
to live with her
except to buy her
cigarettes or get the mail,
but at least she’ll
give you a home.”
At sixteen, no birthday songs, no cakes, but the camera
Adam gave me in secret.
Something, he told me
that could make
more of him, no matter
how many are torn.
Now in my kitchen window, I see my face is not the same
he would remember,
that I left with him
only us rushing
in from the hail, our
hands shaking cold.
But the way a domino falls, I don’t look away
until it is done:
a hammer drumming in me
in slow-motion, a coming to
after a coma
_
_
RUMIT PANCHOLI earned a BA in English from the University of Maryland in May 2006 and is currently an MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Notre Dame. His poetry has appeared in Banyan Review and Double Dare Press, among other places. In Rumit's free time, he likes to travel and write book reviews.
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