Cincinnati Review

Alyson Mosquera Dutemple’s story shows us what would cheer up the devil if he’s been a bit morose.

Where there was a meadow,a shore. Wouldn’t that be beautiful, he thought— to return by sea, which of course implies leaving, or a kind of reliefif we can allow it. And it’s true, the beginning of a painting may also be the beginning of a room. How we followed the canvas toward a doorand there …

(To use the PDF embedder to see all pages of the poem, use the arrows on the bottom left-hand side.) See more poems by Rader and others from Issue 20.1 by purchasing a copy in our online store. Digital copies only $5.

See more poems from Issue 20.1 by purchasing a copy in our online store. Digital copies only $5.

(To use the PDF embedder to see all pages of the poem, use the arrows on the bottom left-hand side.) See more poems from Issue 20.1 by purchasing a copy in our online store. Digital copies only $5.

It takes very little to become a difficult patient. Having questions, feeling unexplained or anomalous pain, being uncajoled, seeming nervous for one’s first dose of chemo. The nurse looked at me sideways as I walked into the chemo-complex, and asked, “Are you all right?” as if I should have been. As if I looked excessively …

I am sleeping when the pain starts, dreaming of full hospitals and empty classrooms, a dark tunnel, dates on a computer screen, a diminishing roster of students, dead links, a riot of wildflowers—yellow to orange to code red—a superbloom of fires. My body jerks. My eyes open in the dark, and I am sucking air. …

Piya has just turned thirty. She works in her family’s hotel. Tonight she will become pregnant. In twenty-some weeks, she will lose the baby, and the state of Indiana will sentence her to twenty years in prison for feticide. One year for every week. But for now, it is early on Tuesday, and on Tuesdays …

There’s nothing much wrong with the Bridgeway Motor Court. The carpet in Coleman’s room is dappled with burn marks, and the exterior wall, the one with the windows, has these psychedelic zigzags at the bottom, like somebody’s kid was left to run their crayons back and forth over the same spot, rubbing them down to the nubs. It’s cheap, though, the motel, and there aren’t any bugs.

Marcus Donaldson’s poem is akin to the song that you stop everything to dance to when it comes on in the club.