2 Jolly & Tremulous Ghosts Make A Night Of It
Arm slung round waist
shoulder pressure warm at chest
four feet making quadrilateral wobble &
mouths open we ex(in)ex-
haled starry air.
“Feelings,” you said,
“not so easy without
a glass or two but I mean what I say all the same see I’m drunk but not so drunk not to know
what I mean
you know.”
Your words rolled & were
friendly marbles on your tongue.
Laughter spilled from my throat
& the street, not so dark,
the light of lamps
made gold—
they laughed, too.
“You
gotta reach for your dreams! You
stress too
much! You gotta stop
worrying all the time!”
I steered your wobbling weight,
& knew your mettle might
sustain me yet
that warm, shadow night.
Bassam Aramin tells his son of his childhood pastime of throwing stones at the Israeli soldiers
I was a boy.
I threw stones, my hands made rough by throwing.
The soldiers stood by, called out, “Go home, boy, go home.”
The soldiers waved stone and only smiled for home.
I threw stones, my hands made rough by throwing.
I know the anger blazing your chest the fiery gold of the riotous sun.
The soldiers waved stone and only smiled for home,
and I know the tears you will not shed.
I know the anger blazing your chest the fiery gold of the riotous sun.
Your sister’s eyes were bright, round, and very dark,
and I know the tears you will not shed.
The rubber bullet pierced her skull.
Your sister’s eyes were bright, round, and very dark,
and I know this because I saw that boy’s eyes.
The rubber bullet pierced her skull,
and his eyes were dark, very bright, and round.
And I know this because I saw that boy’s eyes
when the soldiers unloaded a cartridge into his chest,
and his eyes were dark, very bright, and round
when the stones tumbled warm from his fingers and hit the ground in
three
soft
thuds.
When the soldiers unloaded a cartridge into his chest,
his hand fell so slow from the sky
when the stones tumbled warm from his fingers.
So heavy with love unsung.
His hand fell so slow from the sky.
Your hands will become rough with throwing.
So heavy with love unsung,
your nails will crack with the pressure of this earth.
Your hands will become rough with throwing.
I tell you boy, this is true:
Your nails will crack with the pressure of this earth.
Here I stand, and I call out to you.
I tell you boy, this is true:
With my hands open, my eyes upturned to God,
here I stand, and I call out to you.
“Come home, child, come home.”
With my hands open, my eyes upturned to God,
the soldiers stood by and waved me on.
“Come home, child, come home.”
You are only a boy.
Lauren Kalt is an English major with minors in Studio Art and French. She was born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. She is an aspiring editor and creative writer and plans to pursue a career in the publishing industry and get an MFA in creative writing. As a previous contributor to and fiction editor of The Tunnels, she is thrilled to have her work accepted again and can’t wait to see the magazine continue to grow. In her writing, she hopes to evoke a sense of magic and beauty while exploring narratives that are not commonly found in the mainstream. When she’s not being a total reading and writing nerd, she enjoys cuddling her dog, drawing, teaching her friends random French phrases, and binge-watching whatever show has taken her fancy.