carolina quarterly 60.3

Remember the exigencies of geography. Five thousand people may be trapped by floods in Bangladesh, but when are five thousand people not dying in Bangladesh? Think of the countries your protagonist would be able to identify on a map of the world. This might be many. This might be few. This is, either way, your outer. This is the plotline that will dog the protagonist. This is the beast that rears its head.

Jasmine V. Bailey

John-Michael Bloomquist

William Virgil Davis

Haines Eason

Tina Egnoski

Samar Fitzgerald

Scott Garson

Stephen Germic

Susan H. Maurer

Thorpe Moeckel

Justin Perry

Ole Pophal

Linwood Rumney

Andrea Scarpino

Ronald Wallace

and more

cq_coverfileFINAL5.indd 1 12/4/10 9:59:39 AM

P O E T R Y | F I C T I O N | E S S A Y S | R E V I E W S

F A L L 2 0 1 0 I S S U E | V O L . 6 0 , N O . 3

H A B I T U A L L Y N A S C E N T S I N C E 1 9 4 8

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The Carolina Quarterly

AUTHOR NAME 3

INTERNS

Bhumi Dalia

Rebecca Hart

Benjamin Miller

Heather Van Wallendael

F O U N D E D I N 1 9 4 8AT T H E U N I V E R S I T Y O F N O RT H CA RO L I N A – C H A P E L H I L L

ABOVE | untitled

Michael Anderson

COVER | Ole Pophal

Matthew Hotham | EDITOR- IN-CHIEF

O N L I N E AT www.thecarol inaquarterly.com

F O U N D E D I N 1 9 4 8AT T H E U N I V E R S I T Y O F N O RT H CA RO L I N A – C H A P E L H I L L

FICTION EDITORS

FICTION READERS

Jerrod Rosenbaum

Ted Scheinman

Ben Thompson

Nate Young

POETRY EDITOR

Matthew Harvey

POETRY READERSRachel Kiel

ART EDITORS

Samantha Kiefer

COVER DESIGN

P O E T R Y

10 HAINES EASON | Old Woman, One Porch Down Payphone Elk in Summer

17 JASMINE V. BAILEY |

22 TINA EGNOSKI | Explorations of the Gulf Stream with Notes on the Body Ill

23 STEPHEN GERMIC | Miner’s Creek

33 JOHN-MICHAEL BLOOMQUIST | Bright Star Preparing the Altar

36 LINWOOD RUMNEY| Low Tide in the Penobscot Bay

38 ANN RYAN | No Telling

39 WILLIAM VIRGIL DAVIS | Orchards The African Violet The Helicopters

42 ANDREA SCARPINO | After the Stroke, Poplar Trees Practice Runs

74 RONALD WALLACE | Occlusion Memo to Myself Found in My

Appointment Book

77 THORPE MOECKEL | Terra Sutra

95 SUSAN H. MAURER | Arte no es la vida. 1-31-08

F I C T I O N7 CAITLIN HORROCKS | Start With This

45 SAMAR FITZGERALD | You’re a Big Success

78 SCOTT GARSON | The Goth of SecurityOne Field

C O N T E N T S

F A L L 2 0 1 0 | V O L . 6 0 , N O . 3

6 THE CAROLINA QUARTERLY

APRIL DAI | Untitled

CAITLIN HORROCKS 7

CAITLIN HORROCKS

Start With This

Breaking news: someone trapped somewhere, inside of something.

Consider the practicalities of location, identity, quantity, likelihood of

of daily life. Remember the exigencies of geography. Five thousand peo-

people not dying in Bangladesh? Think of the countries your protagonist

would be able to identify on a map of the world. This might be many. This

might be few. This is, either way, your outer. This is the plotline that will

dog the protagonist. This is the beast that rears its head.

beneath fallen rubble. She lives a life beyond the raw wreckage of such

events. The walls must be clean and tight, off-white or brightly colored.

her husband, there is the gusting pressure of his emotional absence, the

is trapped by her body, by illness or disability, by weight she cannot seem

line, life line, fate line. This is the inner story.

Nothing actually happens in this story, not yet. She puts toast in the

the impact in her jaw, her eye sockets, the back of her brain. Her daugh-

ter has forgotten her lunch and the protagonist takes it to the school of-

her desk, or her refrigerator, or the wallpaper of her cell phone. She does


not really know how she feels about kittens. She is duty, uncertainty,

regret, love and its miseries. She is the egg the author taps on. She can’t

crack, not yet, not yet. But soon.

Several pages later, there is a scene something like this: in the al-

receiving allergy shots, two each week, one in each arm. The shots are

far-off country: the raging of the waters, the remoteness of the region,

the number of people who will die. She has followed this story only on

radio, as she commutes or ferries the children. She sees the images now,

the desperate crowds, the white sacks of food aid, the endless churning

rope around the neck of what the bottom of the screen says is the last

survivor of a hundred-head herd. They are on a little pimple of land,

sending the water scudding outward in circumference. The cow bends its

wind-pressed head and lows.

is safe.

This is true, but meant to be ironic, and if the farmer is saved and

she remains threatened by her own ennui, it is more ironic still. Or if the

farmer dies and inspires her to leave her husband, that is an epiphany. Or

to change her life.

-

ing tight and hard against the allergen in the muscle. Stop, the woman

almost says to the nurse, a needle poised above the other arm, but the

poison is already inside the girl.

Or go ahead, the woman thinks, because she has feelings about her

daughter that she never says out loud. The girl is her love and her poison

both.

Or the woman says nothing. She levitates. She pulls out a laser gun

and mows down the nurse. She grows bat wings, scaly and hooked. She

CAITLIN HORROCKS 9

her own television show where men compete to marry her, and try to

impress her by giving her daughter extravagant gifts. She lives in a home

with rooms with no particular purpose: great room, craft room, exercise

room, spare room, other spare room, other other spare room.

-

bat wings. She has miscarriages. Her celebrity husband is unfaithful.

Her house burns down and out of all those rooms the only thing she is

made before she was eaten by an alligator during a family vacation to

Florida.

her television show must have been staged. Her celebrity husband leaves

her. She clutches the tongue-depressor cow.

her wings so fast they carry her through time. She visits those miners,

that submarine crew, the dog in the storm drain, the farmer and his cow

standing on a thin spit of land in the midst of rising waters. The whir of

the helicopter on the news, all those years ago, was really her bat wings.

Their spread is enormous. She blots out the sun. She lands and puts her

so afraid. There is nothing here but water and fear, human and animal.

Stand your ground, she tells them, because maybe you will die, and

maybe you will not. We can be the same story, she says. Not stories

nestled inside each other, the cyanidic pit tucked inside the peach, but

impossibility.


MICHAEL ANDERSON | vacancy


TINA EGNOSKI

Explorations of the Gulf Stream,

with Notes on the Body Ill

-

ule his pyelogram for Tuesday. Kidney waste, salt water, piss water. We

sleep vociferously, wavy. During the procedure, dye (a submersible) en-

technician he says, Please don’t tell me again about the body’s dynamical

equilibrium. Medicine loves a choke point: occlusion, pencil-lead-thin

-

-

channel fever. Columbus skirted the Gulf Stream by way of Samana Bay,

Haiti, believing he had discovered Cathay.

Doctors and oceanographers consult the medical report. lt reads:

north to the Grand Banks. Tumor as large as Newfoundland with the

density of a water particle. Their suggestion: rest comfortably, plenty of

Cheerfulness and bravery: concepts that enable scientists to sepa-

rate emotion from fact. Dialysis or hypernephroma? Thirty million cubic

meters of water cleanse the Florida Straits. Dreaming of Cipangu and

percent solution.


JUSTIN PERRY

The Quiet

Young man anywhere, in whom something is welling up

that makes you shiver, be grateful that no one knows you.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

the city with three pieces of luggage weighing together one-hundred and

into France, exhausted and ghostlike and strangely agitated, throwing

chinos sat with his suitcase squarely in front of his legs. From his col-

on the bench or waiting on the platform. The station was small and

quiet there.

the impression of intense activity with a book. This didn’t work: after

another minute he called to me across the bench.

“Nos valises sont le même, n’est-ce pas?” he might have said.

“Comment?”

looked over my suitcases. “Did you buy these at Costco in the US?” he

alike.”

WILLIAM VIRGIL DAVIS 39

WILLIAM VIRGIL DAVIS

Orchards

corrected me—Churchyard.

You were right. But still

the stones in their awkward

rows reminded me of an old

to play in the summers.

This winter, when we eat

apples, we will remember

you your death.


The African Violet

—for Nancy

of its pot (left like a stranded

crown of dirt) and rested—

its delicate, velvety leaves

toward the light—on the top

with many windows, a room

overrun with words and pictures.


MICHAEL ANDERSON | early june peas

SAMAR F ITZGERALD 45

SAMAR F ITZGERALD

You’re a Big Success

banner, the giant percentages frosted on glass? Tasteless, he thought,

printing solutions in north-central New Jersey. He had survived the en-

next stage of their lives, had started dismantling. Just weeks before clos-

-

and to the cheap and abundant pleasures of Chinese takeout. Forever

-

ping the edible origami in his mouth while Helen read aloud everybody’s

You may attend

a party where strange customs prevail. The oddly beguiling tautologies:

Your emotional nature is strong and emotional.

done reading, there was always, unexpectedly, a whiff of solemnity that

lingered as the bill was passed around.

the Gannons’—were grown and long out of the house. The point being


slender frame, the round eyes, so much like her mother’s. He did notice

that she had this perpetually agitated, time-is-money way, and she kept

snapping her cell-phone open and shut, open and shut. Her long black

coat was draped over her shoulders like a cape, and when she fanned the

the catalogue of card stock onto the counter.

“Have you decided on a type of paper or a printing method?” he

asked.

She shook her head and her eyes drifted to the photo of his family,

strain on the consonants, a tightness around the vowels.

usually a good place to start.

-

ple think this wedding is going to totally bankrupt us.” She looked up

from the catalogue and smiled, “Which of course it is.”

He laughed along. “We certainly don’t want to bankrupt you.” The

truth was, he had always liked these types, their particular tastes, their

them, without their eye for imported Japanese linen and platinum bevel-

been nothing.

little touch, something that people notice without being knocked over

-

her purse. She pulled out several prototypes: wedding invitations that

she had received and held onto for this exact purpose. He moved the

catalogue aside.

“Something like this here is very nice, very classic,” he said, produc-

ing his veteran-of-the trade expression—lower lip slightly protruding,

him: a mid-weight ecru stock with deckled edge and charcoal engraving.


Black, or charcoal, in his opinion, were the best colors to show off the

rich, Braille-like precision of engraving. “Bo-ring,” Yvonne, his wife,

brides liked these days, blue ink on brown paper, plum on pistachio.

about it, it was all a little too much like decorating holiday cookies now,

and it was just as well that he was on his way out.

could repeat it on the napkins, the matchbooks, and the place cards too.

Can you do that kind of printing here?”

“We can do that. Sure,” he told her. There was a time when he did

what was needed to stay ahead. Yvonne signed him up for conferences,

and he went, dutifully. He sat on hard folding metal chairs, balanced a

stale Danish on one knee and a notebook on another, while some young

female star lectured to a roomful of men like him about how brick and

-

ering in the shadows of their hulking, creaking printers. There were mo-

dad,” his son Bernard, then in his early years of graduate-school, would

supposed to make him feel better or worse. But over the years, he tried

most of the popular professional advice: he got personal with custom-

ers because websites couldn’t, he partnered with other wedding-related

handle matchbooks and napkins.

When it was time to help her draft the wording of the invitations,

“You don’t want to draw attention to the actual words,” he ex-

For now, at least, no one was getting creative, rethinking “The honor of


purchased the press from had had only an inkling of invitation etiquette,

starters, there needed to be a layering of envelopes—an outer envelope

that takes the stamp and a mailing address (absolutely no abbreviations),

an inner envelope addressed as if you were hand-delivering the invita-

tion, and a third, for guests to respond—like the layering of a wedding

cake, he liked to say. For years, there he was, a foreigner, shining a light

him and nothing—perhaps not even his friendship with the Gannons—

ever made him feel more deeply accepted. For Yvonne, it was one more

sign that anything was possible in this place, that obstacles to success

She looked at him. His words, instead of comforting her, seemed to

have an opposite affect. For a moment, she looked ready to reconsider

everything, and it occurred to him that she perhaps did not trust his taste

and preferences. He hastened to ask for her name and phone number.

“You can come for the proofs in three weeks,” he said.

my mother over to pick them up.”

“Gannon. Debbie Gannon.”

the girl more closely, and then there it was: Helen’s familiar little pout,

the marble eyes, the small frame. Helen had been just as pretty, but stin-

gy with her looks, usually wearing loose jeans and t-shirts from hospital-

sponsored fundraisers.

Debbie nodded, gathering up the samples she’d brought and tucking

them into her bag. “You know my parents?”


was an old house with a long driveway, a shed that Doug had built in the

back, and a woodpile that the kids were always climbing.

was at work.”

“Yvonne watched you, that’s right.”

She looked around the store with mild new interest. She said,

“You’re the one who made that salad my dad loves, with the parsley and

cracked wheat.”

remember.”

demonstrating “little.”

“Oh.”

“Wait, don’t go yet. How are your parents? Do they still live in the

same house?” He shook his head unabashedly. What a fool, she must

be thinking. But it was too much. “Helen and Doug’s daughter,” he re-

She nodded indulgently and answered his questions. Her parents

still lived on Finley. They tore down the partition recently, remodeled

the whole thing. “Thank God,” she said. “Or else, there was no way we

-

opted brother was studying medicine. She herself was a banker in New

York. Her father was scouting out land to build a summer home and her

mentioned that Yvonne was starting a catering company. He offered that

his son, Bernard, was living in San Francisco.

suffered a stab of guilt. But then he continued: “He’s studying anthro-

pology, something to do with urban social networks and public trans-

know.” He shrugged, tried to smile.

“That’s great,” she reassured him.


LACEY LAMBE | Birthday for Rhino

LACEY LAMBE 73Harmony’s Garden


RONALD WALLACE

Occlusion

This morning on my way out the door

to fetch the morning newspaper,

the bite a bad new dentist

(comfortably, at least) in weeks.

My mouth was full of marbles,

asymmetrical, askew. What can

ground some high spots down

with her trusty dental burr.

went home and suited up

went for my afternoon run. For

the four miles without stopping.

slick with sweat and exultation.

My wife was especially beautiful.

We went out to eat at Samba,

every kind of meat off

RONALD WALLACE 75

in weeks. So much for toothless

diets. So much for mashed potatoes,

jello, pudding, cream of wheat.

leg of lamb, roast beef. Here,

take my lucky penny. You look

can grace the headlines, you can be


SCOTT GARSON

The Goth of SecurityOne Field

Harlan Cichowski

Brad Colliers

154 5th

Brooklyn, NY 11215

Dear Mr. Colliers:

th

what must seem my delay in response.

Secondly—and with all due respect to you, sir—it’s my feeling that you

-

hit the mark with others, but not with me.

-

one takes your view and tries to make something of my having been the

SCOTT GARSON 79

“only man to close a mitt” on fastballs thrown by Osterbauer during an

actual game.

Good luck with your book project, sir. Certainly his story is a tragic one.

Harlan Cichowski

*


Harlan Cichowski

Brad Colliers

Brooklyn, NY 11215

Dear Mr. Colliers:

-

By chance, however, you catch me during the cocktail hour, which brings

an infusion of violet to the hemlock woods.

Madison Osterbauer. No player will ever be as great as the one from

-

to write a mystery book.

What might have caused the rookie “phenom”—the kid who had, in a

matter of weeks, “captured the imagination of fans the world over”—to

be so quietly dispensed with in a sudden off-season trade? You have my

could spend some time on my own. Why did they say that they loved me

in Detroit?

my locker out. Why?

to rely on others.

SCOTT GARSON 81

You ask about the defacement of the locker-room wall, for example. Yes,

this happened. No, we never learned why. No one confessed. No one, in

fact, was accused.

might be.

understand something, Mr. Colliers: while it isn’t unheard of—a Septem-

particular player, is management so eager to behold?

These were the questions which underlay the experience of seeing him

Madison Osterbauer? Television distances oddities, renders them small

the road. “You’re kidding me. You are kidding me.”

What we saw: rail-thin kid, about seven foot tall; barbell piercing the

somewhat sore-looking skin of a sparse blonde eyebrow; mess of dyed

trump card: black disc, like a tartar-sauce cap, in the stretched-out meat

of his earlobe.


MICHAEL ANDERSON | phone in motel lobby

SUSAN H. MAURER 95

SUSAN H. MAURER

Arte no es la vida. 1-31-08

Sympathy for the piano.

like a sleeping baby, imported from

can prop its lid up with a little piece

no, no, yes and smashes it with a

red mallet. He is in a circle of salt and

the pianos are delivered by a woman in German costume.

yes, yes, no and no one in the audience is hit by the

shards of shattered wood.


BENJAMIN MILLER

Zigguratby Peter Balakian

84 pages; $25.00 hardcover

Ziggurat, juxtaposes the author’s mem-

ories of working as a mail runner in Downtown Manhattan during the

at Ur four-thousand years ago. Using iconic art, dates, and pop-culture

references, Balakian provides a backdrop for the towers’ rise and fall.

poetry, Ziggurat balances between the pain and strength that come with

recollection.

Divided into three sections, the book spans from before 1963 until

backdrop for the towers through a collage of Warhol paintings and events

-

gate testimony. These poems build towards the second section, which

poem, Balakian’s penchant for lengthy couplets adds kinship between his

lines and a pace that pulls the reader forward towards the next line.

if the merging of writing and bureaucracy started urban life,

if a city could levitate on arbitrage and junk bonds—

BENJAMIN MILLER 97

While his best poems uniquely blend the historical and the poetic,

-

plores this empathy through the vibrant images of the Warhol paintings

and black hole of loneliness rose up in me.

“Omens,” said Ovid, “are wont to wait upon beginnings.”

You said:

Poets are paranoid, apocalyptic

style-drunk, sense-lusters, hypochondriacs.

With a mix of one-liners and historical depth, this poem incorporates

at Ur and adapt it into an elegy for the World Trade Center Towers. The

couplets build upon themselves until they begin to take other forms such

as dialogue and the narration of communal memories.

Balakian’s book rebuilds conceptions of poetry as something his-

readers who didn’t live through the events described. The empathy

and unity in the predominating couplets of Ziggurat

culture that we share, but also embody the rebuilding of culture and life

after a great tragedy. The human capacity to transcend is a theme that

clings to the core of Balakian’s poem, uniting us today with the builders


C O N T R I B U T O R S

F A L L 2 0 1 0 | V O L . 6 0 , N O . 3

MICHAEL ANDERSON is a Wisconsin photographer who focuses on

journal were selected from The Things We Left Behind, a collection

of images that examines the neglected underbelly of the entertainment

industry of the Wisconsin Dells.

JASMINE V. BAILEY is the O’Connor Fellow in Creative Writing at Col-

poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the minnesota review, 32 Po-

ems, Rhino, The Portland Review, and other journals. Her chapbook,

Sleep and What Precedes It,

JOHN-MICHAEL BLOOMQUIST works as a writing tutor and stud-

bloodlotusjournal.com.

APRIL DAI

a book arts and printmaking concentration. Her work incorporates

-

WILLIAM VIRGIL DAVIS’s most recent book is Landscape and Journey

of poetry: One Way to Reconstruct the Scene, which won the Yale Series

The Dark Hours,

Winter Light. His poems appear regularly in leading

journals. He has published in Poetry, The Nation, The Hudson Review,

CONTRIBUTORS 99

The Georgia Review, The Gettysburg Review, The New Criterion, The

Sewanee Review, The Atlantic Monthly, TriQuarterly, Harvard Review,

PN Review, Southwest Review, and in many other journals. He has also

R. S.

Thomas: Poetry and Theology, as well as scores of critical essays. He is

HAINES EASON’s poems have appeared widely in journals such as Bos-

ton Review, Yale Review, New England Review, and American Letters

& Commentary. He is a regular critic for Smartish Pace and American

Book Review, Boulevard.

2010, his chapbook, A History of Waves, was selected by Mark Doty

TINA EGNOSKI -

lished in a number of literary journals, including Cimarron Review, Fo-

and Louisville Review. She is the author of

Perishables,

SAMAR FARAH FITZGERALD

Story Quarterly, The Southern Review, The L Magazine, and Avery: An

Anthology of New Fiction. She lives in Staunton, Virginia.

SCOTT GARSON edits Wigleaf,

He has stories in or coming from Unsaid, New York Tyrant, American

Short Fiction and others.

STEPHEN GERMIC -

lege in Billings, Montana. He is the author of American Green -

ton Books, 2001), and his poetry and essays have appeared in numerous

journals. He is currently working on a book-length poetry manuscript

entitled Days of Rain and Ticks.


CAITLIN HORROCKS’ debut short story collection, This Is Not Your

City, is forthcoming from Sarabande Books. Stories from the collection

appear in The PEN/O. Henry Prize Stories 2009, The Pushcart Prize

XXXV, The Paris Review, and elsewhere. She teaches at Grand Valley

State University in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

LACEY LAMBE is an artist, illustrator, and mother currently residing

in Chapel Hill, NC. She has always cherished children’s books, and

her work has come from this love. Her work explores a diverse range

-

-

ented, guitar-building husband. More of her work can be found at

www.laceylambe.com.

SUSAN MAURER has been published in 16 countries. She has 6 little

books and a full length, PERFECT DARK, has been published by un-

governable press.

THORPE MOECKEL teaches at Hollins University. His latest book is a

long poem entitled Venison

JUSTIN PERRY is a Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University. He

LINWOOD RUMNEY’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry

Quarterly, Quercus Review, Seven Circle Press, and Potomac Review,

among others. He is a 2010 recipient of a fellowship from the Writers’

Room of Boston and an emerging artist grant from the St. Botolph Club

Foundation. He recently completed a stint as the poetry editor of Redi-

vider. He teaches writing in Boston.

CONTRIBUTORS 101

ANN RYAN lives with her husband and two children outside of Freder-

ick, Maryland. She writes poetry and essays when she can. She works

and training opportunities. She has been previously published in The

Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Wartime Issue.

ANDREA SCARPINO is the author of the chapbook The Grove Behind

-

contributor for the blog Planet of the Blind. Her current projects in-

clude learning to like snow.

RONALD WALLACE -

clude Long for This World: New & Selected Poems and For a Limited

Time Only: Poems,

co-directs the creative writing program at the University of Wisconsin-

-

forty-acre farm in Bear Valley, Wisconsin.


Q U A R T E R LY PAT R O N S

The staff of The Carolina Quarterly wishes to thank

FACULTY DONORS

Fred Hobson Thomas Reinert

GUARANTORS

Brian & Michelle Carpenter

Howard Holsenbeck Grady Ormsby Richard Richardson

SPONSORS

Hunter C. Bourne

Christine & Joseph Flora Jack W.C. Hagsrrom Kimball King Melissa Ross Matron Michael McFee Regina Oliver

P O E T R Y | F I C T I O N | E S S A Y S | R E V I E W S

FRIENDS

Michael Chitwood William Nelson Davis Marianne Gingher

Jim McQuaid Jack Raper Robert Shaw

MEMBERS

Michael Shilling Nancy C. Wooten

Service.

PATRONS 103

Remember the exigencies of geography. Five thousand people may be trapped by floods in Bangladesh, but when are five thousand people not dying in Bangladesh? Think of the countries your protagonist would be able to identify on a map of the world. This might be many. This might be few. This is, either way, your outer. This is the plotline that will dog the protagonist. This is the beast that rears its head.

Jasmine V. Bailey

John-Michael Bloomquist

William Virgil Davis

Haines Eason

Tina Egnoski

Samar Fitzgerald

Scott Garson

Stephen Germic

Susan H. Maurer

Thorpe Moeckel

Justin Perry

Ole Pophal

Linwood Rumney

Andrea Scarpino

Ronald Wallace

and more

cq_coverfileFINAL5.indd 1 12/4/10 9:59:39 AM

carolina quarterly 60.3

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