RogueAgent

ISSUE 71
CONTENTS

FEBRUARY 2021

Alison Palmer
Sage Tyrtle
Debasis Tripathy
Stephanie Heit
Beth Gordon
ART: Sherry Shahan
Rosa Caines
Katie Darby Mullins
Esteban Rodríguez
Susanna Wood
Trivarna Hariharan

CONTRIBUTORS

Alison Palmer

THE WORLD INSISTS IT CAN BE NOTHING

Burial-trees, essays begging God and the wind,
            wilder than I ever expected—

My condolences, my condolences; your friends
            form a long, tedious line—

Each palm I press against grieves as clouds do
            losing their reluctant rain—

In a room filled with your photos, you don’t come
            alive; sorrow never plans a good reunion—

It can’t smell like tears but it does, air heavy
            with salt, over a hundred devotees—

Every thankful voice creates a gentle cadence
            that almost lulls us—

Vacancy, and what falling does to a family; I 
            offer apologies for my apologies—

Sage Tyrtle

CAT’S MOUTH

My upper lip is twisted in a snarl I'm not making.
A snarl the surgeon stitched in 1973 when he was
fixing my cat's mouth. Sewing a line from my nose
across my non-existent philtrum
to my lip
So I could suck from a bottle.
So I could smile. 

Sometimes when the girls named Jennifer
(they are all named Jennifer)
circle me chanting "Sa-age, Sa-age, she lives in a ca-age"
my cat's mouth scar pulses, pulses
like if I knew just the right word to whisper
my rage would silence each perfect mouth
until all I could hear was my own breath.

My partner Todd laughs and shows me his phone
the photo he took of himself has been turned into
an oil painting, peculiarly convincing, and he
is a louche Art Deco gangster, lounging.
"Want to try?" he says.
"It just needs a photo of you."

Wanting to be a gangster too, I pose
(snarling/smiling)
it takes a long time. The phone, confused, is
fixing my lip's snarl. Erasing the scar with pixels
the algorithm blurs and paints
until my lip
is just like anybody else's.
Just like yours.

I look at this parallel me.
Her generous Jennifer mouth. 

I see how the boys rushed to ask her to dance
when Chicago's "You're the Inspiration" began
how Tina Bianchini invited her for sleepovers
and they stayed up so late she failed her geometry test
How she ran, giggling, across the soccer field
while I stared at a peanut butter sandwich in the library.

I look at this parallel me
and think, her life is so boring.

She doesn't stride down the sidewalk like me
wielding her sword in strong scarred hands.
She never had to.

My cat's mouth scar pulses, pulses
And if I knew just the right words to whisper
to step inside her generous Jennifer mouth
I know I never would.

I look up. Snarling/smiling.

Debasis Tripathy

A BUZZ IN THE EARS

All-day, in my ears I had a buzz
boring into my skull, tirelessly
chopping on like an electric ax,
droning on for hours, ultraslow—
execution in slo-mo by a Kalashnikov
firing madcap, unwilling to bid me adieu,
grinding on and on, no rules, no time limit.
Heavy-Heavy mammoths
in dirty cerebrospinal water
jostling for space, on the BBQ—
keeps grilling, treadmilling non-stop.
Lasting exertion on the nervous system, so
mind bears a mutation, an abecedarian
note of new frequency erupts, a hymn, a hum
oscillates as if it's a sequel
prolonging in an endless tunnel, an attack
quite as enduring as the British Raj.
Ruling and raping from the center and on all radii—
seldom any resistance, fears of the backlash;
the attempt at escape to freedom: a misgiving,
unimaginable consequences, a fortress foolproof,
vanquished and venerating masses as a tame
wolf, clipped claws, and teeth smashed.
Xenophobia and nationalism - merely intellectualistic.
Yearning foolishly for privileges can be a spiderweb,
zigzagged with torrents of torment. Open the umbrella

Endure till the showers of suffering stop.

Stephanie Heit

(IN)VOLUNTARY

bleach seductress / call it hypnotism / locked door luxury /
food delivered in ready-to-eat portions / jello! / swish of carts
/ all the touches / blood pressure cuff / pulse monitor /
thermometer / doctors / tidy boxes / if you fit the criteria /
which I do! / pill & needle zombie elixirs / magnetism of
suicide / precaution questions / oh to be a number on a 1-10
scale! / walls sing lullabies / no, that is not screaming / notice
the softness / no sharps here / right angles / lose their
rightness / white intake sheet raised / I give myself up

Beth Gordon

HYDROLOGY (XV)

My lover is an apostle of indelible ink, flower petals on my chest, a black X for the nipple that
was incinerated with medical waste, he knows how to hold it in his mouth. With an eye for the
invisible, he guides my clumsy tongue to the hole where his tooth used to be, where a river or
whisky might be truth: he draws a map that leads me to all things abandoned at water’s edge.

Sherry Shahan

THE APPLE

SEVENTY YEARS OLD

LOVE

Artist statement:

I've wandered the globe as a travel journalist, often watching the world and its people from behind; whether in the hub of London, a backstreet in Havana, or alone from a window in a squat hotel room in Paris; whether with a 35 mm camera or an iPhone. Over the past many months, I’ve begun looking inward, living more fully inside my own skin. I’m no longer too old or too slow. I move at my own pace, eschewing imperfections and embracing my authentic female self.

Rosa Caines

LUST TRIPS ME UP

Lust trips me up
    like the sudden acrid taste of paracetamol on my tongue
                                               like running down stairs too fast
                                      like sunspots burning dark red on my eyelids

It catches me mid step
            a sharp intake of breath
                                     —and I know I am in trouble
                                                             because this time
                                                                      even my heart is wet

hangs sort of heavy in my chest
                  full of chattering birdsong
               and your name tossed around like a small ship in the waves 

It’s a feeling I can’t climb down from
                                 I cover my face in makeup
             and try to remember the feeling of being admired
                        the heady intoxication      the songs that come to mind 

I remember it all and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood
                           the metallic bringing me back to the quiet of my room
               I try and untie these knots in a careful way 

but lust trips me up
everything about you makes me ache
            thinking of your collarbones can fold me like paper
                                                or a collapsible summer deckchair

I wish you would call me up
                                no that’s wrong

I wish you would plunge your hands deep into my chest
                and disfigure the cogs    to make it all speed up again

panic runs this machine
               I need your mouth to make it move

Katie Darby Mullins

TOPOGRAPHY OF THE EYE
for Dr. Brittney McWilliams

I watched macula fall like sand
In projections: saw braided cord,
Made to flip the world around,
Still connected. The first time
A neuropthomologist shined 
Flashlights in my eyes, I saw ghosts:
Burnt reflections of the damage
Fixed with prisms and tint— 

but I am on a sailboat in the middle
Avoiding the storm near a retina
Trying so desperately to detach. I’ll stay
To edges, tributaries that seem strong
Or if not strong, then safe, and if not safe
At least on the map. 

Esteban Rodríguez

LA PALMA

An oasis appears, and you walk toward it,
hoping, that like those narratives of your father
you invented, this is a godsend, that it is meant
as a break from your journey, a chance to strip
off your clothes, bathe in the water, and when
your body has again understood what it means
to heal, sit beneath a palm tree, and forget
the lives you lived before this one: the village
at the edge of a county; the droughts that swelled
the horizon; the awareness that the land
would remain unemployed, and that you,
being the oldest, would have to leave your family,
would have to cross deserts, mountains,
and when the clothes on your back were all
you had left, would still have to take another step,
accept a new faith of uncertainty.

Susanna Wood

SMOKE

I dream of Jessie Kelley and I dream
of cicadas. Hundreds. Wriggling
in clumps along the pavement,
basking in the sun’s long, harsh
rays. You couldn’t walk an inch
without crunching an exoskeleton
beneath your feet
that summer.
Like me, they grew up
underground,
emerged stick-legged,
oversized. Like me,
they left bits
of their bodies behind,
cold red eyes bulged
with stupor.
Clumsy insects scattered
in heaps across the schoolyard,
the sidewalks, Jessie’s front porch,
where they attempt flight,
but crash hard into the screen door
instead. A boy I knew
dropped a brick on one
once, but it didn’t die
right away.
Neither did we,
when we ran arms-up screaming
across 6 lanes of traffic,
from McDonald’s to the mall.
Or when she snuck a pack of matches
to her bedroom,
lit paper scraps on fire
just to fill the air with smoke.
Your pits fucking stink, she announced
as she lathered my scalp
in chemical batter,
let it sit too long.
I still can’t stomach
the acrid singe of hair dye
without feeling myself
melting,
and I guess that was the point.
I wanted to be watched,
but I wanted to dissolve
into the walls
and through the floor & ceiling.
Cicadas batted
at the windows, I said
Maybe the boys will notice
a new brunette.

Trivarna Hariharan

ALCHEMY

Memory un- wavering   as water
swerved     by a fish’s tail.

An ivory door     stamped by
a deer’s dead horns. 
In whose rooms,

every young maiden      whorls
into a mermaid. 

So when I arose in 
a necklace of  

blue-green algae,
no one recognized me 

save for the ghosts
I had refused to become. 

Now for days &       days,
I spend tickling the smallest things––

a grass-beam   ballooned with 
rain enough     to slit it 
 
                               into speech.

Issue 71 Contributors

Rosa Caines is based in London. She is a queer femme, a feminist and a frequent crier. She has been writing poetry since she could scribble, in notebooks, on receipts, bus tickets, her arm. She is new to sharing her work. Her poem “London” was broadcast on BBC Radio London to celebrate national poetry day and a selection of her work will be published in Sunday Mornings at the River’s spring anthology later this year. Find her on Instagram @rosa_caines.

Beth Gordon is a poet, mother and grandmother currently living in Asheville, NC. She is the author of two chapbooks: Morning Walk with Dead Possum, Breakfast and Parallel Universe (Animal Heart Press) and Particularly Dangerous Situation (Clare Songbird Publishing). Her full length poetry collection, This Small Machine of Prayer, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2021. She is Managing Editor of Feral, and Assistant Editor of Animal Heart Press.

Trivarna Hariharan is a writer and pianist based in India. She has studied English Literature at Delhi University, and the University of Cambridge. A Pushcart-prize and Orison Anthology nominee - her recent poems have been published in Duende, Entropy, Stirring, Atticus Review, Front Porch, The Shore, Noble/Gas Quarterly, and others. She has authored two collections of poetry - Letters Never Sent (Writers Workshop Kolkata, 2017) and There Was Once A River Here (Les Editions du Zaporogue, 2018). Besides writing - she has received certificates of distinction in Electronic Keyboard from Trinity College, London. You can read more of her work at trivarnahariharan.com.

Stephanie Heit is a poet, dancer, and teacher of somatic writing and contemplative movement practices. She is a Zoeglossia Fellow, bipolar, and a member of the Olimpias, an international disability performance collective. Her poetry collection, The Color She Gave Gravity (The Operating System), explores the seams of language, movement and mental health difference. She lives on Three Fires Confederacy territory in Ypsilanti, Michigan where she codirects Turtle Disco, a somatic writing space. Find her on the internet at www.stephanieheitpoetry.wordpress.com.

Katie Darby Mullins teaches creative writing at the University of Evansville. She’s been published or has work forthcoming in journals like Barrelhouse, The Rumpus, Iron Horse, Harpur Palate, and Prime Number. She helped found and is the executive writer for Underwater Sunshine Fest, a music festival in NYC. Her first book, Neuro, Typical: Chemical Reactions & Trauma Bonds came out on Summer Camp Press in late 2020.

Alison Palmer is the author of the poetry chapbook, The Need for Hiding (Dancing Girl Press, 2018). To read an interview visit www.thepoetsbillow.org. Alison’s work appears or is forthcoming in FIELD, The Cincinnati Review, River Styx, Columbia Review, Cimarron Review, The Journal, Ovenbird Poetry and elsewhere. She received her MFA from Washington University in St. Louis and currently writes outside Washington, D.C. Find Alison on the web at alisonpalmer.org.

Esteban Rodríguez is the author of the collections Dusk & Dust, Crash Course, In Bloom, (Dis)placement, and The Valley. He is the Interviews Editor at the EcoTheo Review, an Assistant Poetry Editor at AGNI, and a regular reviews contributor to [PANK] and Heavy Feather Review. He lives with his family in Austin, Texas.

Sherry Shahan lives in a laid-back beach town in California where she grows carrot tops in ice cube trays for pesto. Her photos and collage have appeared in The Los Angeles Times, december, Fourth River, Moon Shadow Press, Inlandia, Closed Eye Open and forthcoming from Gargoyle, Montana Mouthful, Literary Mama, Junk Drawer Magazine, Querty, Red Rover Magazine, and The Family Room. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts.

Debasis Tripathy works for an IT company in Bangalore. He also writes—poems and short fiction. His recent work features in Mad Swirl, Squawk Back, Eunoia Review, Collidescope, Turnpike, Adelaide Magazine, Kitaab , Punch Magazine & elsewhere. Occasionally, he tweets at @d_basis.

Sage Tyrtle is a professional storyteller. Her stories have been featured on NPR, CBC, and PBS. She is a Moth StorySLAM and GrandSLAM winner. She's also one of those Americans who swanned around saying, "If this gets any worse, I'm moving to CANADA," but then she really did. More: tyrtle.com.

Susanna Wood is an author of poetry, memoir, and short fiction, who cites sociology, folklore, and the supernatural as inspiration for her work. Wood was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, where she resides with her husband and two regal cats. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in All the Sins, Under the Gum Tree, and other journals. She can be found on Instagram @ohiowildflower and Twitter @suzyjeanpoems.