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Looseleaf Tea

A journal of cultural expression & hidden voices.

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Staff

Mehra Gharibian – Editor-in-Chief

Sam Jeffrey – Prose Editor

Uzma Amin – Prose Editor

Kamin Kahrizi – Poetry Editor Marisa Kallenberger – Poetry Editor / Managing Editor

Lekha Jandhyala – Visual Arts Editor / Marketing & Design

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Dear Reader, This fall issue will conclude the year and the first series of publications for the Looseleaf Tea, and as we grow and develop our mission becomes more and more relevant. Today, you set aside your time to take part in the cultural experiences of an array of individuals. We like to think this journal is a home for their message and a platform for their voices. With this Fall issue, the idea of voices becomes all the more prevalent. The many talented artists displayed come from extremely different backgrounds, but they all have something intangible in common. Their voices are unforgettable. We have found ourselves again honored at the opportunity to give rise to diverse and cultural voices, and we hope that you enjoy the work contained in the following pages as much as we did. Thank you for joining us. Mehra Gharibian Editor-in-Chief The Looseleaf Tea

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Table of Contents Staff.............................................3 Editor’s Note.....................................4 Scherezade Siobhan, Two Poems.....................6 Janet Barry, Of the Buddha: I–Gold, II–Saffron....8 Mira Desai, Footprints in the Sand...............11 Uche Ogbuji, Okobi and the Crying... ............19 Carl Palmer, Screwdriver Mathematics.............22 Bill Vernon, In the Basement.....................23 Anonymous, Immigrant Family, 1970s...............27 Robert Stout, Hostages...........................35 Darren Demaree, Two Poems........................39 Nikoletta Nousiopoulos, martyr...................41 Padma Prasad, All Except One.....................42 Martin Willitts, Jr., Okitsu,,,,,,,,...,,,,,,,,,,55 Leslie Aguilar, Four Poems.......................57

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SCHEREZADE SIOBHAN

After the Arab Spring

Memory is a blind archaeologist –

within myself, I have unfolded frequently

into the divertimento of winter elegies —: sui generis,

my inheritance. in Syria, when the mouths of guns were

cleansed by blood not oil, I once again felt that life is

a speechless immigrant. Now I have learned

to recite silences like a mantra on opium.

When your absence hunts me, my ribs untangle

like ribbons; slowly the equinox treads into clocks,

the scarlet letter in my veins aches to be re-written

as blank verse. I would like to be

incomplete: an anthology of half-faded scars.

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SCHEREZADE SIOBHAN I write to You as the Ghost of Borges I want to be the attar of roses you press into

the crisp folds of your favorite book. I want to go

to sleep pressed deep into the nightingale lyric of

the poems you love the most. Your breath is

a diadem of nimbus; a coronal, You are

the archangel of rootless tempo:

the taut spire of your limbs;

the svelte piazza of your jawbone;

the latticed algebra of your fingers

summed with mine — your body has the era of Indus

soldered into its ivory reign. & my heart; a cul de lampe

— here, dangle your tousled blues; your scarred jazz

I see you as a canvas of Moroccan blue

that daubs the windows of Ithaca, the brass tint

of faded turmeric anointing ore to God.

When you leave I find you everywhere —:

in the madrigal of anastasia lilies;

in the henna dusted tresses of twilight

spread over sleepy highways, that taper into a trail of dust;

in the shadows that junipers tattoo over chiming brooks;

in the clairvoyant racket of ravens promising a sylvan

vagabond’s homecoming — & your smile leaves

footprints on the surface of my blood like a snow leopard’s

majestic paw marks in the cliffs of hind kush. You’re the seismic

underbelly smoldering. You’re the continental shift.

You’re the new cartography of desire.

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JANET BARRY Of the Buddha I Gold

at the temple of the Big Wild Goose, built 652 AD

stone rises stone above stone,

black dragons, incense, bright red

taper candles burn among relics,

sutras, statues of marble and bronze

and in the garden, a golden Buddha,

seated, golden lotus, hands

cradling a golden world,

and in the garden, birds

clustered in delicate bamboo cages, singers

among the scent of jasmine, orchids,

moss thick on graceful rooflines,

trailing vines, golden tones that flutter

in the breeze

weave across the Buddha's gentle face,

gentle smile, until, promptly at 4pm,

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the tourists are swept clear

each wing-clipped bird

carried to its cement bunker.

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II Saffron

at the Drum and Bell Tower, built 1384 AD

Outside the restaurant,

a man has a live swallow on a string,

its wings splayed and fluttering in the dust.

Inside, a group of monks arrive, saffron robes,

bared arms, shaved heads. They sit silently, pass food

with gentle gestures. For a time

we and they are all occupied with popping sweet dumplings

into our mouths and looking, looking, glances skitting

between the tables, courtesy struggling

with amazement at our proximity, our distance.

Then, a shatter of loud laughter.

“Shanghaiese” our guide says, referring

to the table of noisy Chinese tourists who point

and giggle at the monks, “So rude. They are saying

which one they think would be best in bed”

Outside, children fly kites into the dusk, paper birds

clinging to plump young hands. I buy a souvenir.

A beggar sleeps, cradled in the dumpster.

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MIRA DESAI Footprints in the Sand

Amu Amma. That’s what the kids call me. When they’re not

calling me that crusty old woman, that is. Anyway, Amu’s

easier on the ear than Amelie *amma*, don’t you think?

Amelie Visalakshi Acchi, Gauri Chettiar. Once a Bostonian,

now matriarch of all I survey. For decades now I’ve watched

over the conduct of this household from my carved chair in

this sunlit central courtyard. The despot, the controller,

that’s what my sons tease me, but never to my face, of

course. There is a decorum, a protocol that is called for

in this hundred year-old Chettinad home. These old

arthritic bones have to count for *something*--why are you

surprised? See these red and green carved Burma teak-and-

stone columns? They have witnessed strange things over the

ages, many secrets hushed away, many comings and goings,

with my wedding they witnessed the gradual localization of

this *vilayati*, this foreigner, and I’m probably more

Indian than you are, now.

See that six-year old in plaits, playing hopscotch? That

fair one? That’s my granddaughter, Radha-- Radhika . Smart

kid. Spunkier than the rest. She’s the one most like me.

Willful, short of temper and quick tongued, she always gets

her way, or keeps pushing at walls till she does.

But I can see what she’s up to. I was like that, too. My

way or the highway!

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So how did I get here, you’re asking? My hearing and mind

is as sharp as ever. I met Thiagarajan in London. I was on

a Fulbright scholarship-- dissecting Greek classics.

Thiagarajan, of course, was up there for his finance

masters. A numbers man, like a good Chettiar. The story of

our courtship would read like a Baedeker’s guide to England

and Wales. To cut a long story short, we created history.

And we caused storms.

I still remember that hot afternoon when community leaders

had descended upon the home, not one week after our return,

this was in the sixties, you must remember. “My son will

lead the life he wants!” my aristocratic father-in-law had

thundered in the silence of the grand reception room, the

hall reserved for outsiders.

“She was born Amelie, she’ll stay Amelie- absolutely no

changing of names in this house! And no purification

ceremonies either. Utter nonsense!”

Parvati amma, my mother-in-law had pursed her lips and

stiffened. Perhaps that’s when the battle-lines had been

drawn.

The mansion’s mirror-finish walls and *athungudi* tiles had

echoed with this temper display. The many carved Gods –

Ganesha, Kartikeya, Krishna- who ruled this household, must

have been pleased at his stand. That group of somber

community elders who’d stepped in unbidden to proffer their

advice based on their understanding of the scriptures, had

thought it prudent to retreat, to opt for a path more

diplomatic. Yes, my father-in-law did own vast land

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holdings around this town.

A Boston Brahmin. That’s what I was. Remember the between-

war years? No, you’re too young for that. Anyway, the

1940’s were a time of hard work and frugality. No matter

what your name was, or who your granddad was-- I was a

child then, but I remember.

Never before had I been so brash, never before had I

bragged about my Mayflower ancestors. “From one of the

oldest families in America, her family fought alongside

George Washington” Thiagarajan had spoken up, after

clearing his throat and asking for permission. “The

original, the one whom Washington DC is named after?” he’d

added.

“Yes, yes, of course, she’s highly qualified, and from a

family of repute, she’ll learn our ways…,” an elder had

nodded, after a long gulp of coffee.

And I’d learnt. How I’d learned. How to sit cross-legged on

the ground How to use your hands to eat, partake of a

gourmet meal off a banana leaf, and not make a mess. The

different styles of that style statement, the saree, how to

drape it to perfection, and keep it from slipping off. The

do’s and don’ts of propriety, South Indian style. In time,

I learned the language. Its cadences and lilt. But the

invisible shorthand of taboos, obligations and expectations

has remained a mystery to this day.

But most important of all, I’d never learned the mindset.

Maybe not completely.

Did I feel welcome? It took a while to be accepted, to be

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counted amongst family members. And that incident with

Jayalakshmi--but that happened much later. But yes, in time

I learned to be a part of that intricate family jumble of

first and second cousins, siblings, distant and unlabeled

relatives who co-existed more or less peacefully under this

enormous roof. Yes, mostly peaceful, despite the

interfamily cross-connects, cousins marrying, nieces

marrying maternal uncles, and such like—you think I wasn’t

shocked about that too?

Our wedding was quite an event! Relatives from all corners

of the world descended upon the family home. Swishing

silks, antique jewelry- strings of enormous gems and the

best *basra* pearls set in solid gold—all a princess’s

envy—all these were brought out from large chests.

Marigold-jasmine garlands decked the house, music played,

and to the witness of my parents, my best friend Sarah

Graham, and cousin JoAnn-- all of them reddening and

shrinking with the summer heat—I’d been welcomed into my

new family.

So was it “Roses, roses all the way?” Did Parvati amma’s

predictions about the white menace attracting drought and

pestilence come true? Wait!

For a while, Thiagarajan took up a Citibank job and we

moved from country to country. I was the one who insisted

we return home every vacation. I’d try to blend right in,

working with all the other womenfolk, helping supervise the

servants with the cooking every morning, assist with making

enormous quantities of pickle and papadum. We’d prepare

turmeric and ginger powder-- aromatic spices that we’d set

out to dry in the back courtyard. The kitchen and store

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rooms were clustered around the second courtyard, and the

area would look quite festive with red chillies and sliced

mango spread out to dry on clean cotton sheets. Dry heat

would scorch the lands outside—but our lands were well

irrigated, thanks to a system of stone storage tanks and

water channels that an ancient had put in place. Past the

thick stone walls of the mansion, under the sloping

mangalore- tiled roof, we’d be cool and safe.

Parvati amma would give me only the non-critical,

“outsider” tasks. Jayalakshmi, Thiagrajan’s youngest

sister—she’d often take my side and try whittle away at her

mother’s iron resolve, try and soften her up. One evening

Jayalakshmi ran in screaming from the back garden where

she’d been gathering flowers for the evening prayers. A

snake mark on her arm sent the family in a panicked tizzy.

But when I saw the creature that the servants had battered—

it was harmless, a garden snake. I’d seen so many of these

in the zoo back home.

The head servant had immediately been dispatched to fetch

the *Vaidyacharya*, the ayurveda expert. But I’d not

waited-- I’d put my mouth to the wound, and spit out the

blood with much show. After this, Parvati Amma had turned

into my staunchest supporter. “We must change with the

times, so the wise proclaim,” she’d say.

Pujas, story telling sessions with the elder women of the

house, we’d spend hours spent poring over old albums and

valuables—Burmese jade, Venezuelan pearls, ivory embedded

toothcombs and elegant fans-each piece with its own tale.

And always there’s be a tale about Uncle Somasundaram or

Chidambaram, and how he came by this particular treasure.

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Neither the children nor we elders would tire of listening

to these stories over and over again.

Yes, children-didn’t I tell you?-- for by now there were

two, Ravindran and Shyamasundaram. They’d revel in the

yearly shift between upstate New York and our special part

of the world, like true Chettiars, masters of both their

domains. Their classmates went to summer camp, to Colorado

or the Great Lakes, the boys came home and learnt numbers.

Thiagarajan was making his way up the ladder, sitting in on

compliance committees across continents, taking on

responsibilities and longer hours.

Money? Did we have enough? Not enough for an estate in the

Hamptons, but rich enough.

Burnt out. That’s what they called it. One bright autumn

evening, he returned from work earlier than usual,

completely drained. “Let’s go home…” he said, after

attending to two cups of filter coffee. He’d grown tired of

the constant see-saws of the market. And government

policies changing without an inkling. This once he’d been

lucky, the Yen had collapsed but he’d been able to stop his

bank’s earnings from evaporating. But he wouldn’t be as

lucky every time, and the thought plagued him.

So here we are. Today I hear my elder son grumbling about

more or less the same things and I wonder how long he’ll

last.

Anyway, that’s a different story.

I was only too happy to return to these rich fields and

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wake up to bird song, the chattering of the peacock and the

parrot. We’d sit for hours under the star-filled sky, in

our own private terrace with its embellishments, stone

etched birds and trees, and in time Thiagarajan began to

heal, show an interest in the family business. The boys?

They adjusted. American International School in Kodaikanal

for term time, the family home for vacations-- it turned

out okay.

How did we manage, specially the transition, and especially

with so many nay-sayers? Weddings, births, and funerals,

and the cycle of time, all these helped. Of course there

were ups and downs—good heavens, this is not a sweet

saccharine story from the movies! Problems too, like the

time the crop failed, there were no rains at all-- all the

storage tanks ran dry that year, animals, humans, everyone

suffered under the scorching sky, and we had to buy water

for the first time ever in the history of this family,

tankers raising dust storms as they crisscrossed the

parched land. Or the time when it rained too much and we

were marooned, thankful for our massive store of grains and

condiments. Yes, certainly a far cry from London and

Boston.

My elder son, Ravindran, always a wizard with numbers, made

it to the IIT and IIM. He lives in Bombay or Mumbai or

whatever they call it these days, but is home every

vacation time, much to his city-bred wife’s displeasure.

Between you and me I think he’ll come back here eventually,

just needs to first make his mark.

Shyamasundaram, my younger son, inherited my love for wide-

open spaces and the burnished feel of teakwood. Organic

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farming. That’s what he chose to do, after a doctorate in

environmental sciences from the University of Michigan.

He’s a wizard with greens--spinach, tomatoes, red pepper,

bell pepper, celery-- our produce is blessed with the

distinct taste of our land, a taste that has found favor

with the most discerning buyers in the world. He’s thinking

of setting up an organic restaurant in Singapore, next.

Ambitious, aren’t they?

Difficult? I should know! So many of the outsiders drop in,

every harvest season, to supervise the crops, ensure that

organic methods of cultivation are followed, they say-- but

between you and me I think they’re here to have a great

vacation. Just the other day someone suggested we offer

home stays, teach the curious our manners and ways.

And those Greek classics? Long forgotten. The Gods and

ancestors have blessed this household.

Must tell Radhika to step indoors—now just what is that

child up to?

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UCHE OGBUJI I.

So what are you saying?

We are all cowards in this village?

A chalk-man of cassava flesh

ignoring the mighty leopard men of Amaraku

laying an iron path through our own yam plots

terrifying us with his blockhead beasts?

Yay! What has become of Amaraku

in these short years I've been away;

where are the stalwarts my father knew?

Now that my father is old and infirm

Can he do anything

but watch

his sons and brothers

allow ghosts

to appropriate

our family land…

What is that noise?

Eh? Take me to this iron path

and while my Okobi blood leaps through my veins

no beast or bastard will cross our land!

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II.

Ah! There comes the pale man's gwon-gwoni nnama.

What racket it makes as it runs along.

But do we not say, oh Amaraku

that the troublesome child at play

is louder by far than the crouching hunter,

that the king never scampers in his own realm?

Come forth you noisy demon:

It is on the Okobi farm you shall stop…

What is that noise?

Ha, look! I haven't even touched the thing

And already it is wailing,

Some diseased elephant sneeze!

The iron beast is crying.

Just wait until Okobi's hand

touches your insolent cheek.

There it cries again.

Here I stand, son of Okobi,

my sharpened matchet in my hand,

on your wood and iron path.

You have insulted Amaraku and now

On the Okobi farm you shall stop!…

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Just wait until Okobi's hand

touches your insolent cheek.

There it cries again.

Here I stand, son of Okobi,

my sharpened matchet in my hand,

on your wood and iron path.

You have insulted Amaraku and now

On the Okobi farm you shall stop!…

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CARL PALMER Screwdriver Mathematics Lying up under the car

on the floor of the garage

I see his little feet arrive,

the shadow of his head

bending down to ask,

“Whattaya want, Dad?”

“Hand me that number two Phillips

on the workbench there, son.”

I watch him switch his weight

from one little foot to the other,

step away, start back, stop,

turn around and then

scamper back to the car.

“Dad, is the Phillips a plus or a minus?”

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BILL VERNON In the Basement I knew it was a bad idea, but Mom signed me up and ordered

me to go. Then Mrs. Cecil kind of pushed me downstairs. "Go

on. The meeting will be down there. Make yourself at home."

All seven boys were back in a corner. They said hi to

me, then turned back to Jacob, who resumed talking,

describing Robin Whitehead, who lived nearby. I delivered a

newspaper to her house too. He put his fingertips on his

upper chest, then held them a few inches out from it and

said, "She's got the biggest ones in my neighborhood."

The others laughed and one said he'd like to see them.

I smiled and let it go at that.

Jacob said, "Did you hear the one about the farmer's

daughter?"

A kid said, "There's a bunch of those jokes."

They all wore a blue uniform with an ugly little

beanie, which would preseumably have to get and wear. I ran

into these kids on my paper route, but they went to the

public school. I went to Catholic school.

Jacob said, "This is about a real dumb farmer who

finds his beautiful daughter naked in the backyard with a

man. The farmer says, 'Hey, what're you doin', thar,' and

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his daughter goes 'Whoop' like she's been goosed, her

titties bounce up and down, and...."

The other boys laughed like what Jacob said was funny.

I crossed my arms on my chest. Farmers went to our church.

Some of my best friends were farmers.

"What's wrong? You know this one?" Jacob stared at me

so the others looked at me too.

I shook my head.

Jacob stepped toward me. "You don't think it's funny?"

I put my hands on my hips. "No. It's dirty and

immoral."

Jacob stepped right up in my face. "You're a Goody Two

Shoes."

The other boys laughed.

I pushed Jacob so he fell back against the furnace

with a loud thunk. Then he ran into me. We grabbed each

other, spun around and fell, slamming into a furnace duct,

which came loose and banged loudly hitting the floor. From

the overhead duct the loose one had been connected to, coal

dust and ashes billowed out onto Jacob and me.

I crawled back off Jacob and stood. Jacob sat up and

brushed off his face. Ashes covered his forehead, eyes and

nose. A little pile was on his lap. I had the stuff all

over my arms and back.

"What's going on?" Footsteps thumped downstairs and

Mr. Cecil appeared, his white socks becoming dark and

sooty. He grabbed Jacob under an armpit and pulled him up.

The dust covered Jacob's eyes and forehead like a Halloween

mask.

The man's face turned as red as his hair. "Look at

this mess." He glared at each of us, then back at his son.

"I've told you a hundred times not to wrestle down here."

"We weren't wrestling." Jacob pointed at me. "I got

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attacked."

"They were fighting," one of the other boys said.

Mr. Cecil looked at me, then pushed his son toward the

stairs. "Rinse off at the sink."

Jacob left, and Mr. Cecil called after him, "Bring the

broom and dust pan over here. And a wet mop. You're going

to clean it up, Mister."

"He started it." One of the other kids pointed at me.

"I don't care who started it." The man turned to me

and his voice softened. "We don't fight in this house,

William. We work together. It's teamwork we want,

understand?"

I nodded.

Dragging a dripping mop in one hand, Jacob reappeared.

His face and hair were wet and his uniform top was gone.

The white tee shirt that had been underneath it was wet as

well. He said, "I didn't do nothing. He knocked me down."

"I don't care. It's over now. I want you two to shake

hands. Go ahead. Shake." He put a hand behind our shoulders

and pulled us toward each other.

Jacob stepped toward me but made a snarly face his

father couldn't see. I crossed my dirty arms over my chest.

"Shake," Mr. Cecil said and Jacob stuck his right hand

out. Mr. Cecil stared at me.

I shook my head.

"You can't stay here, William, unless you shake hands.

I'm sure your parents would understand. Go ahead and

shake."

I shook my head. The man's eyebrows raised.

I said, "I'm sorry," turned around, went right up the

stairs and through the side door, which I closed softly.

It was dark outside. I was supposed to call Dad when

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the meeting was over, but I couldn't go back inside and ask

to use their phone. I started walking. Home wasn't that far

away. I remembered the joke and what my mother had said

just a day ago: To always treat "females" the way I'd like

my sister and mother to be treated. With respect. So I was

right. Jacob was disrespectful. Also, immoral. If I'd

laughed at his joke, I'd have to confess it. When I

explained, my parents would understand why I was kicked out

of the first Cub Scout meeting I went to.

The next afternoon Mrs. Cecil caught me delivering

their newspaper and said, "That won't be necessary. We are

cancelling our subscription right now." She slammed the

door.

I hopped on my bike and pedaled off to Robin

Whitehead's house. I'd delivered Sunday, Monday and

Tuesday's newspapers already this week to the Cecils. They

owed me 55 cents. I decided to ask for it when I collected

as usual on Saturday.

But I never did go back to that house, and for weeks I

tried to think up a good punch line for that farmer's

daughter joke.

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ANONYMOUS [Iraqi-Armenian] Immigrant Family, 1970s

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ROBERT STOUT Hostages Aurora Serrano traces her forefinger along the frame

of a photograph of her four children and repeats “rehenes,

rehenes somos todos” (“hostages, we’re all hostages”). A

strong, sturdy retired office worker, recently widowed,

with a wide-cheekboned face and deep-set dark eyes, she

describes life in semi-rural Mexico that on the surface

seems traditional, compatible, but remains tightly under

the control of economic and political forces that permit

only acceptance of the way things are.

Serrano lives on the outskirts of the city of Oaxaca

in the southern part of the country. The state of Oaxaca

leads the nation in the assassinations and disappearances

of journalists, human rights advocates and

environmentalists. Billions of pesos vanish every year from

the state treasury but nearly 70 percent of the population

lives in poverty.

Yet there is laughter. Festivals with fireworks attract

crowds of thousands. Grammar-age children help their

parents on farms, in stores, in non-licensed businesses.

Teenagers marry and have children; widows trundle for hours

to worship at the shrines of patron saints; neighbors help

each other digging drainage ditches, re-wiring houses,

repairing cars. People born into poverty who expect to die

in poverty accept the fact that they’re jodidos—screwed—and

live as best they can.

Control of communal life in Serrano’s words is

“prevalent but invisible.” It is similar, she claims, to

that of ranch animals that are free to graze as they

please, procreate as they please, deal with heat, cold, the

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frivolity of their young as long as they don’t turn against

their keepers. Those holding the majority of residents

hostage—the political-entrepreneurial-religious hierarchy—

manipulate the country’s finances, dictate labor conditions

and control the media.

“Many farm animals are quite content,” Serrano smiles

and adds, “They live the life they were born into, they

accept it as natural, the way things are, were and will

be.”

Acceptance of the way things are and will be is rooted

in Mexico’s past. The Aztec, Toltec and Maya civilizations,

like the Spanish monarchy and the Catholic Church, governed

vertically with the tlaloani, the king, the Pope, the

viceroy, the governor possessing unquestioned authority.

“God’s will, everything is God’s will. To go against

God’s will is a crime.” One obeys or spends eternity in a

Hell that may or may not exist.

To go against the government also is a crime. Even in

cases where those who assassinated journalists and

protesters have been identified there are no arrests or

convictions.

Despite hardships, however, “Oaxaca is not a slave

labor camp.” Women gather in the evening with their

children and grandchildren in little communal playgrounds

to talk, tease, complain. Others sell tortillas hecho de

mano, roasting ears, pandulces. Men gather in tienditas to

share liter bottles of beer, talk sports or farming or

weather. Teenagers seek out secluded corners to whisper,

kiss. Cell phones abound. So do televised soap operas,

sporting events, art gallery openings, band concerts,

church festivals. In daily life one seldom is aware of the

hostage keepers. Of ways of living different from one’s

own.

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This way of life, rooted in acceptance, is time-

consuming. Mexico’s workforce is among the most poorly paid

in the world. Many workers, both men and women, moonlight

in addition to holding regular jobs. Being continually

short of money necessitates doing one’s own repairs,

shopping carefully, riding buses, washing clothes. To

participate in a protest, join a study group, involve

oneself in politics is a luxury. To do what one can for

oneself and one’s children is full-time endeavor. An

occasional Sunday barbecue with friends is both a pleasure

and an achievement.

Nevertheless, “the way things are and always will be”

has begun to crack. In northern Mexico the success of the

drug-exporting corporations to challenge the political-

entrepreneurial-religious hierarchy and create a new “the

ways things are” has forced altered allegiances and

alliances. The ranch’s protective fencing has been

demolished and residents of nearly a dozen northern and

western states have fled or been killed or co-opted into

joining or tolerating the invaders.

In the south transnational mining, energy and lumber

investors have usurped landowners and campesinos,

devastated the environment and forced people out of their

homes. Citizen groups linked to traditions and the way

things were find themselves fighting to regain the hostage

way of life that Serrano describes. If limiting it was

preferable to being shoved into a gully without access to

the basic necessities.

But the majority is too preoccupied with the problems

and exigencies of daily existence to buck the system.

“Most of us in Oaxaca don’t want to be heroes,” Serrano

concludes. “We want to share joys and sorrows, be with our

children, have enough to eat. Dance. Sing. Work. I fought

against things when I was younger but I lost. I just want

 39  

to think about my granddaughter’s fifteenth birthday

celebration. The gifts. The delicious tres leches cake.”

 40  

DARREN DEMAREE Emily as an Outline in Red Dust

I admire the look

of the earth-products

that collect where Emily

has been. I like to name

them. I like to draw

poorly-defined faces

on them. I love

to take away the symbols

that could lead

other people to Emily.

If you ever see her,

it will be your triumph.

 41  

DARREN DEMAREE Emily as Compelled to Bury Her Hands Beneath the Pine Needles Almost all of what happens

next is hidden in the hands

of those that can control you,

your fate, can push your heart

around like it is more wheel

than dedicated tide. I am

almost always near a forest.

I am almost always caught

staring down beneath a giant

tree in one of those forests.

Sometimes, Emily smiles

& I know then that she has

absolutely nothing to reveal.

It is then that I most want her

arms pinned behind her back.

 42  

NIKOLETTA NOUSIOPOULOS martyr –for my father– I fear my prayers will be condemned

To wild woods, star-less-ness, or shadows,

Until a spark delivers me.

Father, I let go of my daughter spirit

Under a Byzantium sky. I am the crow

Who hides in the hazelnut tree

you created.

In a Korifian dream, St. Stephanos

holds emerald poems

In his palms. They are lodged too deep;

They are what bleeds between his knuckles,

Or they are my eye’s piety.

How was I to know you died

for the art of me?

When the crow flies

This means I have forgiven you.

 43  

PADMA PRASAD All Except One

They kept Ammi on two chairs. The lower half rested on

one of those old colonial wooden lounge chairs which had

flapping arms. Since she couldn’t breathe at all if she

leaned back, they got her a high chair and let her upper

half rest on it. The wounded left leg was kept on a wooden

stool with a cushion on it. Her shoulders trembled with

every wheezing breath she took.

In the morning, Madhani, the young servant maid oiled

her hair with coconut oil and then combed it into a tiny

knot. Then she stuck a little red rose with a hairpin on

the left side of her head. The doctor had said to trim her

toe nails. So Madhani worked on them with a pair of

scissors. The bad leg felt as if it would cave in at any

moment, as if it would detach from Ammi with the slightest

pressure. The skin was cracked and purple with some

discolored liquid oozing out here and there and when

Madhani held the foot, the flesh retained the pressure of

her fingers.

Ammi showed no sign of pain or anything else. Her

sari was lifted up to the knee. The smell in the room was

quite intolerable; the first thing anyone did as they

entered, was cover their noses.

Without being told, Madhani brought a basin of hot

water and a towel, and gently wiped the grandmother’s face,

neck and shoulders. Then she powdered her face and drew a

nice round red dot on her forehead and was rewarded with a

smile.

 44  

Already, Ammi had smartly adjusted to a new kind of

breathing. She took several short breaths and then followed

it up with one long deep breath.

Pandu came in every now and then to see how she was

doing. Pandu was her first grandson, the son of her eldest

son. He was far too strong and sturdy to go to school and

started to go with his father to the fields by the time he

was fourteen. No one could say anything because Pandu

belonged in the fields like the grass that grew there.

At first she had followed Pandu with her eyes, but

soon that was too much of an effort. When he saw the flies

bothering her, Pandu brought his sister, Lakshmi, put a

palmyra fan in her hands and told her to fan the

grandmother. But Lakshmi was not happy with this project

and left ten minutes after he had gone.

For the whole week, people had been coming from all

around. First, her five daughters came, each bringing

something that grew in her part of the country. One brought

a huge sack of chilies, another brought ground nuts, the

third brought sweet lime, the fourth brought mangoes, and

the fifth brought onions. With so many people in it, the

house became lively. People talked with each other, they

told stories to each other, there was laughter, there were

whispers, sometimes they arranged a couple of marriages, or

they made up a group and went to see a dance drama in the

next village.

The doctor, who had come almost every day for the past

four years to give Ammi, her insulin injection, came in

now. Pandu followed with the doctor’s briefcase. Ammi had

been a good patient. A little overweight. The doctor had

not been too confident about moving her from the pills to

insulin, but it soon turned out to be the right decision.

The insulin was good for her; he saw her sugar readings

 45  

begin to drop. Everything should have been good and normal,

but everything was not.

Ammi came to Lingapeta, when she was married two years

after puberty. Getting married was one thing, but to

actually see the River Godavari for the first time, it was

worth getting married for that. She loved this river

immediately. When the breeze rose from its waters, it

whispered the secrets of happiness to her. But she could

not go into the water, she could not wash her sins off in

this river, she could only look from the train, the train

on which she sat beside her new mother-in-law and where

relatives and strangers came to stare at the charming

little bride.

She was little only in how young she was. Standing,

she was five feet seven inches, taller than all the women

around her. Her bones were already large and capacious,

supporting a girth that reduced the number of folds she

could make in her sari. Her eyes were not pure black, they

were slightly grey. That and her rich, golden complexion

nourished by pure cow ghee and very loving parents drew

everyone into her gracious glow. They said she looked like

their Goddess.

As she looked through the train window, Ammi knew

there was some deep meaning in her yearning for the river.

She knew what it was when her father-in-law said to her

that Lingapeta was located on the banks of a tiny baby

tributary of the Godavari. In all the many years, they had

miraculously escaped the droughts and the floods because of

this special protection, they were the only ones to be

fortunate like that. So, the villagers worshipped the

little baby river every year in the month of June. They

offered flowers and fruit, lit lamps in the upturned halves

of lemons and spent the night on the little river bank.

 46  

For Ammi, this was not enough.

Year after year, she expressed to her mother-in-law,

how much she longed to wash her sins away in the mother

river. Her mother-in-law, a very practical woman, said,

“Wait, child, wait till you get many many more sins, then

we can wash them all away in one dip.”

She had gone through children, through grandchildren,

through snake bites and scorpion bites, colds, fevers,

diseases, harvests, deaths, and then she could no longer

wait. They got into the jutka and rode to Samalkot station

and took the Circar Express to Rajahmundry.

So Ammi, were your sins all washed away?

All except one, my child, the water turned muddy with

them.

How many did you count?

I didn’t think to count them. They were all washed

off, all, except one, I know that. Certainly when I came up

after the first dip, my head felt light, and the second and

third time, I knew I was a newborn being, born all over

again from the mother river. We can only be as divine as we

believe we are.

Pandu put the doctor’s briefcase on the little side

table. The doctor opened it very slowly and fumbled around

for his blood pressure monitor. It was very old and

stained. He knew what her pressure would be. It was just

another ritual, untying the strings on the cuff, wrapping

the cuff around her arm and hoping for a change.

When the doctor first saw her leg about two weeks ago,

he didn’t like it at all. She showed it to him saying it

had bothered her from the time they went on their

pilgrimage. She carefully lifted her sari and there in the

middle of her shin was a gaping wound; the flesh in the

center was yellow and soft. Why had she not shown it to him

 47  

as soon as she returned from the pilgrimage, when it first

started; how did she walk around with it all these days?

The doctor was too pragmatic to ask these kinds of

questions. He did his best to clean it and ordered them to

go to the hospital in Kakinada at once.

Lingapeta is some eighteen to twenty miles from

Kakinada. If you took the jutka and left around six in the

morning, you should reach Kakinada by ten, latest by eleven

am. But it was the ploughing season and the only bullocks

that were available were too weak to last even an hour. So,

they had to wait for three more days before Pandu tethered

a reasonably rested and healthy bullock and brought the

jutka to the front of the house and Ammi hoisted herself

into it.

They reached Kakinada at around 1 pm. The city was all

decorated. It was the opening day of the big movie with NTR

in the role of Lord Rama. Ammi saw the fever in Pandu’s

eyes and so they lined up in front of Sangamam, the ac

movie theatre next to the hospital. After the movie, Ammi

said the festival season was coming soon, so she might as

well get some new saris, and then there was a doll shop,

the children haven’t had any new dolls to play with for

such a long time, so she should get dolls for all the

grandchildren. So, they got all these things and then it

was a bit too late to see a doctor. They drove home

reviewing the movie, with Pandu whistling as he cracked the

whip on the bullock, whose name was Krishna.

Pandu’s grandfather was sitting in his easy chair,

under the Neem tree in front of the house. He was talking

to two new laborers who had just started working for them.

He saw Ammi get down from the jutka with all her bags of

shopping, he saw how her face glowed and he was happy they

had listened to the doctor. Only, no one told him they had

 48  

not even stepped across the threshold of the hospital.

In the night, Ammi moaned like a wild, wounded animal.

The pain went into every part of her body and settled

through from one layer to another, until she felt damaged

in her very center. That was the night’s story. In the

morning, she got up as always, measuring the rice from the

rice bin, sorting out the rotten tomatoes from the good

ones, talking to the cow when the milkman brought her in to

milk her, arguing with the vegetable man who tried to cheat

with his weights, and looking at the hens and getting their

eggs.

Twenty eight days ago, only twenty eight days ago, I

stood waist deep in the mother river. It was not water, it

was a living fluid. I felt its sacredness against my flesh.

In all the noise, the talk, and the laughter, I knew the

first silence of the water. What more can a human being ask

to know? All except one. The mother river is telling me

there's something she couldn't wash away. This is the only

way to get it out. That's what this is all about.

The doctor untied the strings of the blood pressure

cuff and wrapped it around her swollen arm and placed the

stethoscope in his ears; then, with an effort to disguise

his numbness, he began to inflate the rubber ball.

He couldn't be detached – they had told him about the

trip; still, to go all the way to Kakinada and return

without treating the leg, they did not understand how bad

it was. It was time to talk bluntly; he had said to them,

she will lose her leg if it's not treated properly. That's

decided then, she had replied, I will die with all my body

parts.

Then one afternoon, Ammi sat alone in the kitchen,

singing a song to forget the pain. She was all alone there

because her daughter-in-law had a rage in her heart, it was

 49  

a rage that came and went on some days of the month. This

rage maddened her and the only way she could cool down was

to go and sit at the pond that was in front of her mother’s

house and weep till she was tired.

Ammi’s leg was burning hot. She fanned herself with

the slightly burnt palmyra fan that was kept in the kitchen

to fan the fire. For the first time in the longest time,

her eyes were cloudy and she felt like dashing her forehead

to the ground. She looked up to see Madhani’s mother

standing in front of her, her hands all folded and her face

cringing and ready to do anything.

“What is it?” Ammi asked.

“Madhani’s stomach is sick. I came to help with the

housework,” she said.

The last time Madhani’s mother came, she created a lot

of bad feelings in the house; some women have that kind of

nature. Also, Ammi saw her stealing rice and sugar from the

cupboards and stopped her from coming any more for work.

As soon as she saw Ammi, Madhani's mother knew the

deep change that pain had made in her. She knew how to

talk, how to say the right things, the things that Ammi

wanted to hear at that time.

“Amma, Amma, Ammagaru, how hale and hearty you used to

be, like a queen, taking care of everything,” she started a

lamentation. “My heart is paining to see you like this,

now. How did you let such a thing happen? I can only blame

it on evil eyes that have been envious of your prosperity.”

Then her voice dropped into a dangerous whisper. “Where is

that one, your daughter-in-law? Ammagaru, you are so kind

to her, but she is a poisonous one, a snake woman that will

harm you for nothing. You will not let me say anything

about her, but I have heard her talking to the fisherwoman

and the milkman’s wife about you. Ammagaru, what did you do

 50  

to deserve such a daughter-in-law.”

Ammi smiled at the shabby, shrunken Madhani’s mother

and pointed to the wound on her leg. “Stop that talk and do

something for this,” she said.

Madhani’s mother covered her mouth with her hands.

“Only Goddess Durga can help you,” she said. “How,

Ammagaru, how did this happen to you?”

Ammi told her about the pilgrimage to the river. She

had taken her third dip in the water, she said, when she

felt something wrapping itself around her leg. Maybe, it

was a water snake or maybe it was just a weed or even a

cloth. It made her jerk and she slipped a little. That was

all she could say. When they were returning home, she did

not even think about it. At that time, the place on the

leg was just red and numb.

Madhani’s mother said that she knew of only one thing

that could work in such situations. Immediately, she took

some tamarind and some neem leaves from the tree in front

and ground it into a very fine thick paste. Then she

applied that green paste on the wound. Ammi watched as if

it was somebody else's leg. As she applied one layer after

another, Ammi felt a chillness starting from her feet and

slowly making its way up all over her body right to the top

of her head, right to her ear lobes. Finally there was a

solution, she thought. Madhani’s mother told her to let it

dry and then when it peeled off, the skin would be whole

again.

All washed off except one. Which one could it be?

Something so big, it deserves such a major punishment and

so much pain? I am thinking and thinking from as long ago

as I can remember what have I done that cannot be washed

off. Or maybe it was not one from this life. Maybe it is

one from a past birth. It must be the scorpions that I

 51  

killed, they have cursed me. Especially the last one, which

was swollen with babies. Who can win at this game? It’s

alright if that’s what this is about, I couldn’t let them

sting someone, maybe Pandu or Lakshmi.

The doctor looked at the reading, her pressure had

dropped some more; he thought, she may not last through the

day. First, he got the insulin ready, about sixty units of

bovine insulin. Pandu stood beside him, watching every

movement without blinking. The doctor went to the window

and tapped the syringe to get rid of the bubble in the

insulin. Just as he pressed the needle into her arm, Ammi’s

husband, Babuji, stood in the doorway; his lips were

tightly clamped and he had only slept for a very few hours.

Still, his plentiful silver hair was neatly parted and

combed. His slim and delicate face was clean shaven and he

looked for answers on every face in the room. When she

realized he was there, Ammi moistened her lips with her

tongue and tried to sit up.

“I just took her blood pressure,” the doctor said,

looking at Ammi’s husband. “It’s a bit low, sir; it should

get better after she has her lunch.”

Babuji went to the adjoining room. They could hear the

safe door opening and closing. Then he called for Pandu. A

few minutes later, Pandu came back and gave the doctor his

fees. Meanwhile the doctor had prepared another syringe, a

larger one, with morphine. He gave it to Ammi and then

carefully put back the blood pressure monitor, the

syringes, his stethoscope and his spectacles into the

briefcase and shut it quietly. She had always served him

lunch if he happened to come near lunch time. He stood for

a minute before her with folded hands. “I will come

tomorrow, then, Ammagaru,” he said and gave the briefcase

 52  

to Pandu.

They brought her lunch immediately after the doctor

left: cracked wheat, some lentil in a bowl, another bowl of

boiled vegetables without salt and a cup of curd. Ammi

looked at the food and her lips began to move; she pursed

them in and out of her face. Her first daughter took a

spoon and started to mix the lentil into the cracked wheat.

After thoroughly mixing it for several minutes, she finally

scooped a spoonful and brought it to Ammi’s mouth. Ammi

turned her face away slowly, her mouth clamped shut.

Another daughter came and tried to feed her, but she turned

her face away just the same. Her youngest daughter was an

outspoken woman and she started to scold Ammi in a drastic

and urgent tone. But Ammi put her head down and was not

even listening. She closed her eyes. They took the food

away and whispered that maybe she wanted to sleep and they

should feed her once she woke up.

One by one they quietly left the room. Pandu pulled

the window near and was about to leave when he heard her

calling him. He bent his head close to her.

“What did your mother make special today?” Ammi

whispered.

“My mother made prawn curry today, Ammi.”

“Go and put some on a plate and bring it for me

without anybody seeing, Pandu.”

“Yes, Ammi. I will do that. “

He returned a few minutes later with a covered plate

of rice and the prawn curry and carefully placed it in

front of her. She removed the cover and slowly inhaled its

aroma. Her hands shook badly, and she let Pandu take a

spoonful to her mouth.

Ammi’s tongue came to life with so much intensity she

surprised Pandu by straightening up from the chair on which

 53  

she was leaning. She ate the first mouthful with an

analytical approach to the ingredients.

“What oil is your mother using? She has changed the

oil.”

“She is using the refined sesame seed oil, Ammi.”

“I knew it. One week I am not in the kitchen and she

spoils everything. This oil has no flavor, so how can

anything cooked with it be tasty. Did your grandfather not

notice? Did he not say anything about this? I am very

surprised.” She began to cough without control and went

back to her supine position.

Pandu stroked her shoulder till the cough subsided.

“Pandu.”

“Yes, Ammi?”

“Can you heat it and bring it? It will taste a bit

better.”

At about four in the evening, there was a big

commotion in front of the house. Ammi’s final child, Babu

had arrived from Madras with his Tamil wife and three year

old daughter. They brought tins of halwa. Within an hour,

the first tin was secretly opened. The Tamil daughter-in-

law was coming to the house for the first time after the

marriage. She was a dark girl with a good strong featured

face, a sharp nose and big wide eyes. They talked about

these features for many hours.

The brothers and sisters huddled and whispered

together in a corner in Ammi’s room. Ammi drifted in and

out, in a semi-conscious state. She heard the word

‘tamarind’ repeated several times.

If Madhani had not been sick, Madhani’s mother would

not have come that day. If Madhani’s mother had not come,

she would not have seen this unwashed sin. If she had not

put the tamarind paste, maybe things would be different.

 54  

But who is to say that? The end was already decided, it

could be done through tamarind paste or it could be done

through sandalwood paste; it could be done through

Madhani’s mother, or it could be done through one of my own

daughters. What difference would it have made? However we

cheat ourselves from facing the truth, one way or another,

the truth doesn’t go anywhere and its shape doesn’t change

anyhow.

A little before dusk, Madhani came with a towel and

hot water and freshened Ammi for the evening. The lamp boy

brought his little kerosene lamp and lit the one hung from

the ceiling. It was still not dark, but he had been

instructed to make things bright.

Out in front of the house, Babuji rose from his easy

chair and stretched his hands above his head. He stood

looking down the mud road for a long time. Finally,

“Babuji, your dinner is ready for you,” he heard them call

and went through the house. On the way, he stopped in

Ammi’s room. She was looking very nice. Madhani had even

managed to change her sari. She was wearing a purple

Venkatagiri sari, the gold thread glinted as she breathed.

He pulled up a little stool and sat beside her.

“What is worrying you now?”

“Everyone has come,” she said.

“Yes, your last son looks very prosperous.”

“They brought halwa, did anyone bring you some?”

“Yes, yes.”

“They have come from such a long way.”

“They didn’t come in a jutka. They came in the train.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

“Then what is the new problem for you?”

“Everyone has taken so much trouble to come. It

shouldn’t be a wasteful journey.”

 55  

He patted her hand. “I’ll worry about that, you take

rest and get well.” He was about to get up when he

remembered something. “Otherwise, she’ll cook everything

with this new refined oil, and I can’t take it too much

longer, that’s all I can say.” He turned to Pandu, who

stood in the doorway. “Yes, yes, I am coming,” he said to

him.

Only one left and there’s no time now to know which

one. I’ll just have to come back and deal with it, I

suppose.

 

 56  

MARTIN WILLITTS, JR. Okitsu

Based on the series by Ando Hiroshige, The Fifty-Three Stations of the Tokaido, picture 18

Near the Okitsu River, seaside “Miho no matsubara” Note: “Miho no matsubara” is the site of the Hagoromo ("The Feathered Robe") Noh play. The story of a celestial being flying is overcome by the beauty of the white sands, green pines, and clear water. She removes her feathered robe and hangs it over a pine tree before bathing. A fisherman, Hakuryo, takes her robe and refuses to return it until she performs the dance for him. She can not return to heaven without her robe, so she complies. She dances in the spring twilight and returns to the sky in the light of the full moon leaving Hakuryo looking longingly after her.

1.

Water dances

white feathers

of milkweed seed.

2.

A sumo on a packhorse

keeps a secret robe

 57  

dancing in his heart.

3.

Pine grove on sand,

water invisible as light

never returning.

4.

Sumo in kago

too tired of fighting

to dance.

5.

Land flat

as a robe

a naked moon left behind.

 58  

LESLIE AGUILAR

Water Mexican

Barreling through the air like a bare-knuckled fist,

I am raw hide & pink panties clinging to the edge

of my narrow hips as I leap into a turquoise tiled

swimming pool. I am a child, & I haven’t learned

how to swim yet, haven’t learned to thrash my limbs

violently beneath the surface to keep my head afloat.

I must have known then, the moment before I flopped

belly first into the pool, that I would float. I must have.

Months later, when my white friend asks if I can swim,

I’ll lower my head towards the creek bed beneath

the broken bridge where we are standing & say, No,

there are snakes in this water. Gesturing with her index

finger, she will point at the water moccasins gliding

beneath the water, & say, those Mexicans can swim.

I’ll laugh at the slip of her tongue, not knowing then

the water moccasin is a venomous snake that claims

the waters of Southern states. Its defense tactics are

often over-exaggerated as aggressiveness. Unless

threatened, the moccasin minds its own. I’ll learn

 59  

this years later, just like I’ll learn how to tread water

out of necessity, & she will learn how to swim faster.

LESLIE AGUILAR La Lengua de Lenguas I come from a long line of mujeres

with hips like washing machines

stuck on spin cycle. They gyrate

in a circle around caballeros without

horses or llanuras to call home.

I am afraid of my heritage hips:

the way they expand like plains.

Debajo de mi cintura como mesetas –

but they are easier to carry around

than the propeller letter R

at the end of my last name.

It slices through knots in my tongue.

Hasta la sangre no es mi sangre.

The taste is rust on door hinges

to rooms I cannot lie down in,

 60  

like licking a battery and tasting

only burnt garlic or onion. My tongue,

a foreign flag I am afraid to wave

over the Llano, stains hems on faded

blue jeans but washes out with spit

& laundry soap. The detergent label

tacked to the front of the blue bottle

shows a plush bear that reminds me

of Bimbo, & the way I hoard sweet cakes

of my childhood on my plateau hips.

Dígame que tú recuerdas, begs my Abuelo,

in his mustached voice. I come from

prairies & sun cracked skin that burns

against cool cotton sheets on a bed,

but I am sweat on the Jarrito de Toronja

I clutch in my fist like a passport

porque mi lengua no es mi lengua.

 61  

LESLIE AGUILAR Canicas In a wrinkled Ziploc bag,

twist tie, a circular tie dye

of colors & colors & colors.

¡Canicas!

Marbles!

I stutter over the word

instead of letting it dip

in the bowl of my mouth.

In the plant room, Papa

hangs a glass wind chime

that reflects light in metallic

shades of green & blue & red

that remind me of glittering.

The greens are mint leaves

 62  

framing Papa’s backyard patio.

Electric blues are bug zappers,

hanging from a limp clothesline,

daring me to lick the sound,

if only for a second, just to know

what electricity might taste like.

Reds are dusty clearance tags

tacked to the front of each item

in Bennett Office Supply, where

Papa worked every day until

he just couldn’t do it anymore.

Each colored ball of glass burns

inside in my palm until Papa asks

if I know how to play the game.

Marbles!

¡Canicas!

I let the word rest

on my tongue before

launching it from

the back of my throat

like an over exaggerated

KAPOW!

 63  

LESLIE AGUILAR Color Me Coral Abuela, I have searched

for answers to fill

the bare spaces

that taper off at the end,

of your hushed conversations,

but found none.

You talk with your hands

instead of your lips.

Coral nail polish means

you are feeling better,

but when you pull

your blue veined fingers

from the dishwater,

I can see from chipped spaces

on your fingernails that

you will get no rest.

Abuela, tell me your secrets.

Afterwards, I will remove

 64  

the filth under your nails

and paint them any color

that makes you happy.

Thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

The Looseleaf Tea

(thelooseleaftea.org)