Mollyhouse: Issue Two

By Raymond Luczak

This second issue of Mollyhouse features artwork by Kris Ringman as well as poetry and prose by Geer Austin | Bryan Borland | Guillermo Filice Castro | Linda M. Crate | Ron Drummond | Giovanna Fregni | Tor Lowell | Jonathan Mack | Bill Mathis | Stephen Mead | Maed Rill Monte | Kenneth Pobo | Kris Ringman | Sarah Sarai | Lucas Scheelk | Lawrence Schimel | Beth Seetch | Patricia Walsh | Lynn White | Les K. Wright. This issue is edited by Raymond Luczak.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Handtype Press
• Release date: Feb 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005035006

Raymond Luczak

Raymond Luczak is the author and editor of twenty books. Titles include The Kinda Fella I Am: Stories and QDA: A Queer Disability Anthology. His Deaf gay novel Men with Their Hands won first place in the Project: QueerLit Contest 2006. His work has been nominated nine times for the Pushcart Prize. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He can be found online at raymondluczak.com.

Book preview

The artwork (Snowy Owl) on the cover is by Kris Ringman. [Image description: The painting shows a close-up of a snowy owl evoked by thick daubs of white with mostly blue and other colors. The owl is slightly off-center, to the left, against a black-gray wooden background; its beak is sharp, and its yellow eyes stare right at us. The image itself is framed by an off-center solid color with the title MOLLYHOUSE in a dull teal color with capital letters with a wispy mustache centered underneath with the following words in small capitals, set in a gray color: ISSUE 2 | EDITED BY RAYMOND LUCZAK.]

Individual contributors in this issue own the full copyright to their respective work. Please contact the editor directly via email if you’re unable to reach a certain writer via the links provided in their bios.

Mollyhouse comes out twice a year. Submission guidelines can be found at mollyhouse.org.

SMASHWORDS LICENSE STATEMENT

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the editor (with the individual contributors retaining copyright to their own work), and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

***

CONTENTS

Bryan Borland

Kris Ringman

Sarah Sarai

Patricia Walsh

Stephen Mead

Tor Lowell

Lynn White

Jonathan Mack

Lawrence Schimel

Giovanna Fregni

Guillermo Filice Castro

Geer Austin

Beth Seetch

Bill Mathis

Maed Rill Monte

Ron Drummond

Les K. Wright

Linda M. Crate

Lucas Scheelk

Kenneth Pobo

Contributor Bios

***

BRYAN BORLAND

LINEAGE

There are things you aren’t meant

to understand.

The only brother to

survive the war had twelve children

and four generations later here you are.

Decades ago someone fed a dog

and because of that you have a dog.

You’ll never know the woman who

planted the tree but you love her

because she did.

***

KRIS RINGMAN

FOX GIRL

I dream of a girl with patience. A mother without

the ability to feel anger. Ever.

Such things are fairy tales, fireside stories, spoken by

foxes in the dark, whispering through red fur, into

paws that have touched every inch of the forest.

I smell the dirt between their toes. Dirt that clings

like the ashes of someone who has died.

Ashes I keep, clumpy and wet.

Me and the foxes, we need a calm tributary

of the roaring river to the south. We need

slack waters to act as a mirror.

So we can examine ourselves,

dust off the dirt and ash, the

webs we weave.

Keeping us warm, occupied. So we take a break from the

search. But when a fox has the taste of blood in her mouth—

how can she stop herself from hunting?

***

COYOTE

He stole you

from the side of the road.

It was no mistake—he knew

from the moment he saw you—

You were nothing like him. Your fur

caked with blood from the impact

of a machine you’d never understand,

something millions of humans drive each

day over the roads we’ve paved through

your homes, roads we’ve tried to own—

You’ve never thought of ownership. You’ve

spent your life focused on the next curve of

hills, the next animal you would kill

for dinner, the next place you might find

water or a mate, the life you were supposed

to live until you were eaten by something larger—

Instead, we’ve found ways to cross distances faster

than any paws or feet. We speed by your kind between

the trees, howling in high pitch cries I will never be able

to hear. Instead, I watch him pull down your skin, exposing

organs inside the white curve of your ribs, terrifying our dog—

Who smells your body (wondering if she will be next),

reading the story of your death in the stretching of your muscles

while our son stays inside, thinking of your black eyes while

the man stands back, takes a breath, walks in a circle, returns

to your dangling body, puts the knife in again, pulls hard,

looks at you then at the ground to the spots dark with blood—

He comes inside after laying out your body between the trees.

We sit on our couch, watching humans love, fuck, and murder on

small screens while we wait for the birds to finish consuming

your flesh, until you are bones and we’ve sent off your hide

to be tanned, so we can run our fingers along your fur—

Imagining the sounds of your paws against the dirt, your

throaty howls, the great lands you’ve crossed, the wind

you’ve felt against your skin. This wild life you’ve known

while we sit inside watching small screens, all of us deaf to

the sounds you’ve made from within your heart, whenever

you’ve seen us, perhaps knowing, one day, we might kill you.

***

SARAH SARAI

WE’RE IN TROUBLE YESTERDAY

By yesterday I mean today.

By today I mean pick a day.

By Henny Youngman I mean yes.

"My country is so big, when it sits

around the country, it sits around

the world."

"Take my country [heh heh],

Putin."

"I booked passage on a one-liner.

Take my wife. Please?"

By my wife I mean my wife.

***

SWIM TO SHORE, KID

We’re all water, mainly,

our mystification floating

above us,

observing us in

the presence of ourselves.

And our mothers.

We are unbearably

substantial

in the wake of

aging’s schemed losses

and happenchance

disintegrations.

Yes, it’s rough

but life has market value.

The costs of being unseen

pile up like pesos and

Canadian nickels in

a U.S. change purse.

Penalties aplenty

befall the invisible.

Glow, scream, get on with it.

Discombobulate the bores.

***

PATRICIA WALSH

BOOK THIS

The preferred conscience, hitting the preferred match

Hoping for experience, to wash away sins

Taking on the perfected, misgivings allowed

Scripting one’s own scandal sheets

Right in front of the seasoned deadbeat.

Fingers in