Interviews

Jon Loomis

Legoland

There’s a Lego Empire State building there,
and a Lego French Quarter with what you hope
are tiny Lego prostitutes. There’s a Lego

White House, and a huge Lego head of
Albert Einstein—Lego every damn thing
until you just want to cut your own throat.

But the kids like it, especially Henry, who’s six—
he likes the Lego octopus, the little boats
in their canal. So you keep your mouth shut

even though you can’t get a drink
at these places and it’s dangerously close
to cocktail hour, when at last your wife,

God bless her, says, Okay, let’s hit the gift shop,
which is just like every gift shop everywhere
except it’s wall-to-wall Legos, which is the whole

point, the thing you’ve paid three hundred dollars
to do. Your kids have both picked out a not-too-
expensive thing (a Lego helicopter for Henry,

and for Ava a Lego girl with her Lego horse),
and you’re standing there at the register
with your Visa card out when the floor drops

a few inches and turns for a moment to sponge,
the countertop tips, and something behind you
goes crash, and of course you think

Henry has broken some pricey Lego object,
what a boy of six reflexively does. Henry,
you say, Henry, God damn it, what did you do?

And the teenage girl at the register looks at you,
eyes wide, surprised by how stupid you are,
even judged against the general run

of gift shop customers. That
was an earthquake, she says. It wasn’t your son.
He didn’t do anything wrong. And of course

you think of your father, long gone,
nothing left but his voice in your mouth.
How old were you, then? When you swore

you’d never be like him?

Interviews

Jon Loomis

Lucky me [A Love Song]

Under the screen porch a cricket
winds its watch, marking time
like the rest of us—

moon-sieve through the clouds,
late summer untying its green shoes.
Things are good now—our mantra

these days—the children are healthy,
the bills paid, the old house not entirely
falling down. Things are good now,

but someday they won’t be.
Someday the ambulance wailing
down State Street will turn at the light,

and old You-Know-Who
will climb out, scratch at the door.
Things are good now—nice view

from this dining car, but the brakes
are on fire, the trestle’s washed out,
and the engineer calls for more coal.

For Christ’s sake, let’s take our cocktails
upstairs, let’s go to bed naked and fuck
in this silver rumple of moonlight

while we still can, while we still want to—
I’ll never be younger than this, my love,
or better-looking. If there’s a God,

some guy on a cloud who makes wishes
come true, here’s what I’d wish for:
To live in this world a while longer,

but not too long.

Interviews

Alice Firman

Frame it

Today the sky proved it—
Tiepolo must have reconvened
his dust. A blue miracle
fat with bird twitter and high
clouds puffed up boastful and shot
through with light. Imagine, all that
to crown this little town of no-account.
They say the Shelnuts’ dog spun
circles to see it, almost strangling
in his chain. And streets, every up
and down, shone new or just washed,
though there’d been no rain, and we feared
we were seeing things or that our sweet
old Earth had come a bit unhinged.

But no, for three whole hours
we had true high-toned gorgeousness.
Why, I don’t know except to say
last night I watched the Shelnuts
throw away their ancient mattress, leaving it
at the curb like an offering or a lumpy
testimony embellished with stains.
And this morning, down roared Aphrodite
in all her glory, her dazzling hands
ringed with gold, brushing the cumulus aside
so she could have a good look.

Interviews

Alice Firman

When did we first

entertain the notion
all this was made for us?
In what B.C. was that?
And who was the thinker
who chewed his nails
down to the bloody quick,
shunning his fields
and his best brown goat
to come up with what
every four-foot, crawly,
leafy thing knows better?

What teeth-shattering
cold coerced him—
rolled up in his nightly rag—
to seek such consolation?

Surely he knew nothing
of us, our smattering
of smarts: smart phones,
smart alecks, smart asses,
smart bombs, and how—
thanks to mischief, mayhem,
and Michelangelo—
we swallowed his line,
happy to agree with him.
Even the skinny kid,
his arm around his girl,
walking the back lane
in this forsaken town,
thinks his pounding heart
the drumbeat of this world.

Never mind the daisies’
argument with Coke cans
and orange peels raging
in the ditch, and overhead
the crows who recognize
human faces—so they say—
and remember.

Interviews

Brittany Cavallaro

Evidence

four plates before we had three          and the tumbler
from Edinburgh I slipped          your new tie pin

into          held the glass above one eye
like a dirty fish          anyway it was the dish rack          wet

I pressed my fist to my mouth          your hands
cut your lips thinned          my own feet were bare

you said          you’re crying          like I’d fallen and spilled
into little tinsels of gold          delighted          my mother handing

me ceramic foxes          salt cellars          scalloped plates
too small to eat on          she saw the basement flat I’d taken

alone or          that next year          some afternoon
wet hands and us          so poor your red misery          eyedropped

into every glass of water          extravagant like wine I ate
I kept my head          through rolling heat          blood cylindered

and sold          the summer nothing unfurled from its homes
until          what was one plate, one cup          you eyeing me          satisfied

a fork pulling at the piece before you          is it done          is it done

Interviews

Kevin Phan

Fledgling

After Michael Dumanis

Rinse burns with vinegar.
Blueprints are useless.

Try to dodge that which would
cleave you in a heartbeat.

When clutching a live wire
wear work gloves & hope.

While your boots are steel-toed
nothing will save you.

Take each flower as a reminder
you’re in for a dusty future.

Do not play with yourself
in the shower.

Do not launch hot clusters
of swearwords.

Leave luscious Bianca alone;
her clutch is sharp & rough.

Never practice prostrations
at the Temple of Longing.

Do not confuse
vice grips for crescent wrenches,

caffeine for enlightenment,
a tribe of rainbows for help.

Do not snapshot the temples.
Do not leave unlocked the front gate.

You will grow cuts.
You will seek bandages & gauze.

You will fail to mend in time.
You will grow new cuts.

When you enter the bathhouse
& discover a razor blade in each palm

then you will learn
the sound ivy makes

as it turns to crystals
in your dreams.

Wake up naked & bright
for all the world to see

& bury your sad pilgrim heart
though each heart is make-believe.

The version of Kevin Phan’s “Fledgling” that appears here supersedes the one that was published in the print edition of Subtropics 19.