Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our
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Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

craborchardreview.siu.edu
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22.03.2013 Views

Lance Larsen In Memoriam Not Memorial Day, but the day after the day after when potted mums in every shade of sadness go on sale. Why not carry home an unmatched pair and mourn in advance? Soon enough I’ll be forced to convert my father into past tense, my mother into a detective novel written under the skin. Place him on the table for awe, wisps of cumulus whipped into shaded questions. And her by the window, so I can breathe tart perfume each time I wash a cup or bless the sun. Colors? Whites to calm, shivering purples to wound like rain. 114 ◆ Crab Orchard Review

Donna J. Gelagotis Lee From the 21 st Floor As the elevator lurched upward against gravity, the seconds tumbled like small pieces of fruit. In the hallway, as polished as a hospital, the dominoes of common doors. And over yours your abbreviated name. We teeter above Brooklyn—the Verrazano to the left, the Empire State: center, Sheepshead Bay to the right—high over Brighton Beach, in a building of Russians and Jews. In the lobby, a sign doubles in Russian. Residents each know the wait for the lift as it pulls upward—up over a city. From here, we can see the mouth of the country—used to change. We no longer speak of the missing Twin Towers as we watch the July fireworks drop starbursts along the water. The long ride up. The long ride down. The long streets you walked as a boy now dim with block-like buildings. The lights inside point to each detached life, at night, when the streets fill with darkness, and with no accent of any kind, except on this holiday, with popping sounds. We look for gunshots. But the streets are empty. They are far beneath us. Crab Orchard Review ◆ 115

Lance Larsen<br />

In Memoriam<br />

<strong>No</strong>t Memorial Day, but the day after the day after<br />

when potted mums in every shade of sadness go on sale.<br />

Why not carry home an unmatched pair and m<strong>our</strong>n<br />

in advance? Soon enough I’ll be forced to convert<br />

my father into past tense, my mother into a detective<br />

novel written under the skin. Place him on the table<br />

for awe, wisps of cumulus whipped into shaded questions.<br />

And her by the window, so I can breathe tart perfume<br />

each time I wash a cup or bless the sun. Colors?<br />

Whites to calm, shivering purples to wound like rain.<br />

114 ◆ <strong>Crab</strong> <strong>Orchard</strong> <strong>Review</strong>

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