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From the Editors This issue marks the second volume of Hattiesburg’s newly

established magazine exhibiting the writing and artwork of current residents, former residents and even non-residents. As Covalence continues to forge its path, we would like to en-courage all readers to participate in its direction by submitting their works or by simply giving us feedback via email. This magazine is FREE. You can also find this and the previous issue at www.covalencemag.com.

fiction@ covalencemag.com poetry@ covalencemag.com artwork@ covalencemag.com

Want to become a sponsor? Covalence is a not-for-profit magazine just looking to cover printing costs. If you’re interested, email us at covalencemag@gmail.com. Want a free stack of these at your place? Let us know, we’ll make it happen.

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Contents

www.covalencemag.com

FICTION “Front Row Seat” p 4 Mary Ryan Karnes “Beards and Jesus” p 9 Jen Marquardt “Steel Movin’” p 22 Chelsea Lovitt POETRY “Last Summer Ending” p 6 Donna Thurman “Reading Dora Malech” p 8 Mark Langham “Kudzu” p 19 “Domestic Sinister” p 19 Ashley Roach “Train Poem” p 21 “Days go by” p 21 S. Calloway Ready “Asunder” p 25 “Quixotic” p 25 Patrick Laughlin ARTWORK “beauty in small things” p 7 S. Calloway Ready “Color Me Happy #20” p 14 Stephanie Massey “Pine and Main” p 20 “Potential” p 24 F. P. Rockür Mangara

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Front Row Seat by Mary Ryan Karnes ________________________________________________________ It is Marie’s first night at the theater. She puts her smooth little hand in mine, teeth chattering. “My shoes are pinchy,” she whispers. I nod, wonder-ing why I agreed to bring her here. She will probably exclaim that she has to pee right before Annie is adopted. We walk into the lobby, where people bus-tle to pick up their tickets. “Fritzie,” she says. “Are we gonna get popcorn?” I am almost certain that everyone in the lobby can hear this little girl asking for movie theater treats like we are going to see a Disney film. “No. They don’t let us eat in the theater,” I explain. “Oh.” The walk to our seats is slow and quiet. She trips on the carpet and laughs at herself. The lights go down, but I see her eyes, fearful and expectant. The voice that comes before every show tells us where exits are, no flash pho-tography, the same old thing. But this is all new to Marie. She looks around for the voice, an innocent, typical act for a first-timer. The curtain makes that crisp sound, like pulling the ribbon off of a gift. Music starts. She is surprised by the animation, the life of the characters. I have seen the play a thousand times. From the audience of a dingy auditorium when I was in grade school to an assistant director’s chair in an off-Broadway production. This is so new to her. She is meeting Annie for the first time. Intermission: we walk to the restrooms, hustling to find a stall. She wants me to wait right outside. “Almost done. Almost done…done!” She opens the door. “All set!” On the way back to our seats, I try to smile at the Theatre Commission Chairman, but I lose my balance and almost break my black patent heels. Marie does not notice. The lights go down again, and she looks like a seasoned spectator. No more fear or wonder, only a wish to know the rest of the story. She would be a great Annie. As soon as the lights are on, she springs up from her seat, clapping and smiling. The audience and I do the same. “Fritzie, are we going to meet them?” “Do you want to?” I ask. “Please please please?” “Okay.” She shakes hands with Annie, Daddy Warbucks, and Miss Hannigan. I dig in my handbag, find a disposable camera, and take a picture of her with a few characters. She will appreciate it when she’s older. Once again, she holds

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my hand. We walk to the car. “That was the best play I’ve ever seen,” she tells me. “Marie, this is the only play you‘ve seen.” “Well I’d like to see another one,” She disregards what I tell her. “Sounds like a plan,” I mutter. I am ready to take her home. I park the car, but I don’t turn it off. This gives me a reason to be on my way. “Mommy didn’t want me home this early I don’t think,” she whispers, as if it is an afterthought. “Well, I’m sure she will be fine with it,” But I’m not sure at all. I ring the doorbell and immediately hear, “A moment, please.” Standing outside that luxury townhouse in the cold, surrounded by tai-lored shrubs and faded concrete steps for even a moment seems like forever. I don’t want Marie to say anything, and she doesn’t. Before I know it she is hold-ing my hand again. I hear her mother coming down the carpeted staircase and can almost see her steal a glance of herself in the foyer mirror. She opens the door, newly applied lipstick on her teeth. “I wasn’t expecting you to be home so early,” She says in that rich Span-ish accent, smiling her red, smeared smile. “Maria go upstairs and change into your pajamas, por favor.” She is still holding my hand. I wriggle it to let go, and smile my lipstick smile at my new sister-in-law. She calls Marie Maria, and I hate it. Marie is my niece’s name because of my mother, a woman that Marguerite never met. Marie is intelligent, innocent, just like my mother. I hear Marie slam a drawer upstairs, and watch Marguerite’s smile disappear. “Gracias Rachel,” she hurriedly mumbles. “Goodnight.” She speaks in Spanish to make me angry, I think. She knows that I am still unmarried and that my brother, my best friend has just been stolen. He is away on business, and she got the house to herself for three hours because of me. She puts her left hand on the doorknob, and pulls. My niece, with her brown eyes and pale complexion is asleep by now. I am sure she has tucked herself in, just as she has many nights recently. She will read herself a story, even though she just started kindergarten and cannot read. But tonight she knows a story, a story of a red-headed girl singing and dancing on stage. I will get that picture developed soon.

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Last Summer Ending The scent of over-ripe Pear and plum Rusty and thick In the back of my throat. Gnarled limb, Like a withered hand On a lusty hip. It reaches around me tighter. Grit between my nails I dig deep, Uncovering the lost Generations of the leaves. Heart-shaped and beating Fast with the wind, They fall around me. I become one with the undergrowth. The reaper boy comes, Beautiful with cold youth. Dressed in autumn's formal, He sings with windy sighs. Let my coffin be The shavings of the birch And the forgotten cigarettes Of hidden afternoon liaisons. I retreat to shade, Letting the last shafts Of clear, dusty light Creep through and cut me down. Summer's companionable assassin. —Donna Thurman

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“beauty in small things” Ph

oto by S. Calloway Ready

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Reading Dora Malech I am through falling in love with every girl I see I have decided, sitting here in one of those megalithic bookstores Drinking bitter coffee, reading Dora Malech Take this raven haired girl for instance Normally, the way she is wearing her dress The way she has absentmindedly forgotten To cover her caramel colored freckles with Make-up this morning would have meant All butterflies and strange twinges But not anymore And the way she slips out of her shoes As soon as she sits Normally I would have thought about that For the rest of the day But not today, today I am no longer noticing Things like the way she slowly flips through her magazine Even though she’s already staring far off beyond it Or the way her expression seems to say she’s been chased Night after night through black forests By the needle-teethed dogs of hunters Narrowly escaping across roaring rivers And that in open meadows, On windswept steppes She has howled out her hurt At a bone-colored moon Her fur silvered by the starlight If only in her, (sigh…..) Sweat-drenched dreams —Mark Langham

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Beards and Jesus by Jen Marquardt _________________________________________________________

Faye’s first show was at Lafontsee Gallery, a small, brick building on the Grand River owned by friends. It used to be a house during Grand Rapids’ hey-day as a furniture manufacturing center. The owner at the time had been sympa-thetic to rumrunners and offered refuge as well as a speakeasy in the basement; this was posted on a plaque by the door. Now the gallery looked like a gallery, displaying Faye’s photos along the wall above the thumbnails for the actual paint-ings they recreated. The rest of the space was sparse and glossy, echoing the tick of heels against hardwood floors and the high notes of the arias floating from hidden speakers. Just like a real exhibit, Faye thought. And then the people came, busily scouring the photos for their own images. She had used neighbors and business owners as models, directing their positions, familiar faces becoming iconic.

Reed was not a neighbor, but another photographer. He had asked to be in the shoot. “I’m in too, right?” he had said when she told him of the project. And of course she said yes. He was there now, standing next to a man with black hair who looked tiny against the print of Sunday Afternoon, looking at the people in the grass along the banks of the City Park in their Victorian hats and bustles, their bodies in perfect profile, all of them silently watching the river.

“This is you,” the black-haired man was saying to the gallery owner, pressing his finger against the glass. She nodded and said something about the weather that day, how it had seemed cloudy but didn’t look that way in the photograph.

“Please don’t touch the artwork,” Faye said, sounding more severe than she had intended. The man drew back smiling, his hand hovering over the glass, threatening to touch it again.

“Are you the artist?” he said. Reed said that she was. He seemed proud of her then.

“Faye, this is my minister, Brian Okada.” “This is Seurat, right?” Brian tapped the thumbnail below and Faye said that

it was. “I like it without the pointillism,” he said. “That always bothered me, breaking people down to dots.” He raised his hand to the photo again, his finger just above the surface. “You can see the pores of this woman’s skin.”

“I tried pointillism,” Faye lied. “There are effects you can use. But it didn’t turn out.” She excused herself and managed to avoid Brian for the rest of the night. She left with friends, pleasantly drunk and wondering whether Callas was a singer or a flower.

*** “That went well,” Reed said. He had been waiting for her at The Chop

House around the corner. Entrees there were expensive, but he and Faye some-times met there for drinks. Tonight they ordered dessert.

“I think so,” Faye said. She was trying to like crème brulee, cracking the top too many times with her spoon.

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“Brian was impressed.” Reed held up his plate, a thin slice of flourless chocolate cake, and Faye nodded. They traded.

“He’s an odd one,” Faye said, and recalled Brian’s fingers just above the glass. “I think he was trying to provoke me.” She cut into the cake and paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to insult your minister. I didn’t even know you were reli-gious.” It seemed odd to her that Reed, who teased her for her own tame and traditional style, could be at all traditional himself.

“I’m not,” Reed said. Faye didn’t know whether or not she was relieved. “My wife is, though. Brian wants someone to do a piece for the church and of course I thought of you.”

Faye took a bite and wiped the corners of her mouth, careful not to smear chocolate on her face. “I’m not religious.”

“They pay well,” Reed said. The restaurant was quiet and Faye could hear his phone vibrating. “Anyone

you know?” she asked as he looked at the display. She knew it was his wife. “I should get home,” he said. He paid cash and they left, passing a man at

the front door. Faye could see the glow of the man’s earpiece in the dark and knew he was speaking to someone far away when he said “Hey how are you?” as they passed.

“Fine thanks. You?” Reed said to him and opened the door for Faye. It usu-ally annoyed her when he was off like that, but tonight she found it sweet, this openness to the world. She found herself a little bit in love and wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

*** Brian called the next morning while Faye was making coffee in her pajamas.

Her apartment, a studio in what had once been a furniture manufacturing ware-house, had poor reception and she conducted most of her phone conversations on the balcony.

“Did Reed mention the photograph?” he said. A neighbor, also on the phone, noticed her and waved.

“He said something about it.” Faye waved back and focused on a napkin, drawing concentric circles on it. She waved to her neighbors, but rarely spoke to them.

“The only thing we can agree on is The Last Supper.” Brian sounded embar-rassed. “The da Vinci one. It’s for the entryway.”

“Easy,” Faye said. “Five hundred. Plus materials.” She felt officious saying this and wondered if the neighbor could hear.

*** They met that Sunday after the sermon. Brian stood on the front steps wait-

ing for her and Faye almost didn’t see him. She was looking up. She had always liked the aesthetics of churches. This one was a high, gothic building downtown that made the surrounding structures look square in comparison; there was some-thing depressing in their sleekness. “It’s a beautiful building,” she said.

“It has a lot of soul.” She wasn’t sure if it was a joke, if she should laugh or not, until he smiled, turned, and led her into his office. It was a plain room deco-rated with a few framed prints. Faye scanned the walls and studied a gilt-framed

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oil painting of Jesus in a garden. “That was a gift,” he said. “Most of these were gifts.”

Faye nodded. She let herself smile. They began to talk about the piece, the logistics, the size and style. Brian wanted it to resemble the original as much as possible: period clothes, flowing hair, chiaroscuro. Reed would find the entire thing ridiculous.

Faye laid out her rule: hair extensions were ok, false beards were not. “They just look bad,” she explained. “The models will have to give up shaving for a while.”

Brian nodded and said he thought they could find people for that. “There is actually a group waiting for you,” he said. “I think they’d like to be in the photo.” Faye asked to meet them and Brian led her to the church’s basement, a dark space with linoleum floors and windows along the ceiling.

“Every once in a while some dad or camp counselor gets the idea to lift kids up and line the window sills with them.” Brian’s finger scanned the ledge that ran the length of the room.

“Why would they do that?” Faye asked. She tried to picture it. “Something different.” Brian shrugged. “The kids like it.” A long folding table was set up at the end of the room with the remnants of

punch and cookies and a small group stood near it, still holding onto Styrofoam cups that were now empty.

Faye eyed a large man in a suit and Harley Davidson boots. His hair was long and wavy and he wore a shaggy goatee. “You’re in,” she pointed at him and there was some low laughter. Brian introduced the man as Joseph. Joseph bowed.

There was some discussion about real beards and one or two of the men opted out, but most stayed and Faye cast everyone present, including Brian as Judas. “It’s the black hair, isn’t it?” he plucked at a few strands, but seemed pleased. They were missing a Peter, a Bartholomew, and a Jesus. Everyone wanted to be Jesus. A few men stood quietly, their faces calm or a bit sad. Some of them held their arms palms up, slightly away from their bodies.

“I have a Jesus,” Faye lied. “I’ve used him before.” She would supply the missing models and they would meet again in a month or so when everyone had had time to grow their beards.

*** After leaving the church, Faye looked for bearded men. An old man fishing

off the Riverwalk looked like a Peter. He wore khaki shorts and white shoes and let Faye sit next to him as he squinted at the water.

“I might come,” was his answer after she had explained everything. “I’m not much of a churchgoer, though.” He let her reel in the line.

The bartender at the Boar’s Head Tavern was interested, a trimmed line of black bristles outlining his face. “This is for a church?” he asked, pouring beer. Beer was all the bars in Grand Rapids could serve on Sundays.

“The Christian Reformed Church,” Faye said. “On Ethel.” She felt like a kid at Halloween collecting for UNICEF. Naïve, a little dopey.

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“Would you do it?” he set the beer down before a man on the other side of the bar.

“Yeah.” The man felt his chin where a beard might be. “Maybe.” *** Brian called the next morning as Faye was babysitting. Her friend Joel was ill

and his daughter Ava was eight. Ava stood behind Faye, brushing her hair. “We lost the Jameses,” Brian said.

“Both of them?” Faye was sitting at the kitchen table, the bristles of the brush scratching her neck. Her hair was light and fine and she wore it bobbed; Ava was getting bored with the shortness of it, her brush strokes becoming quick and hard.

“Their wives said no to the beards,” said Brian. Faye groaned. “I should have a nice beard, though.” He sounded pleased.

“No one wants to pose for this thing,” Faye said. “The homeless guys by the bridge turned me down.”

“How is your Jesus working out?” Faye was quiet. Ava handed her the brush and stood with her back to her. “My turn,” she said. Faye began brushing slowly, afraid of catching a snarl.

“How about I look for a Jesus?” he said. “You’ll pick someone who acts like Jesus,” Faye said. “We need someone

who looks like him. That’s why it’s my job.” By evening, she and Ava had mixed dish soap and water in a bucket. They

stood on the balcony, trying to make Ava-sized bubbles around the girl with a circle of rope. Faye had seen it done once at a children’s museum.

“My dad says you started going to church,” Ava said as Faye lifted the rope from feet to knees.

“I’m working with a church,” Faye said, the bubble up to Ava’s waist now. “Not going to church. They’re different things.”

“Yeah.” Ava shrugged. The bubble was at her shoulders, over her head, just about to close when it popped, raining down on both of them. “I’m too old for this,” Ava said. She went inside to wash off and it must have been then that she buzzed-in Reed because Faye didn’t know he was there until he was. He stood in her living room with a bottle of wine.

“Hey Lady,” he said, looking around. This was his first time inside her home. “Hello.” She dropped the rope into the bucket and stepped inside. “What

brings you here?” Reed lifted the bottle, a Bordeaux, a good one. “Brian said the beard search

wasn’t going well. I thought you could use a pick-me-up.” Ava came out of the kitchen then, patting herself with a one of Faye’s dish towels. She draped it on the back of a chair.

“Hi, I’m Ava,” she said. Reed shook her hand, said hello. “We’re making bubbles.” She led him onto the balcony while Faye put away the towel and opened the Bordeaux, letting it breathe. When she joined them outside, Reed was seated in a chair. Ava had stirred the bubble mixture into a froth that she was applying to Reed’s chin and her own.

“Beards!” said Ava.

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“Beards!” said Reed. He stayed until Joel showed up and took Ava home. Then they poured the

wine and sat on the balcony, waving off moths. “So what were you doing with these bubbles?” he asked. Faye explained the process: the circle starts around the feet and is pulled upwards, the bubble is person-sized.

“Let’s try,” Reed said and stood up. Faye let him build the bubble around her, elbows tucked in, one hand covering her wine glass. He raised it from foot to knee, knee to thigh, to hip, to shoulders, above her head.

“I’m afraid to close it,” Reed said, holding the rope above her head. “It might pop.” He looked very concerned.

“Wow,” Faye said. The world was screened by the rainbows of soap swirls, everything quivering slightly. “Wow.”

“A miracle, huh?” She thought he winked at her. “Do you want to be Jesus?” She said this quietly, afraid her voice would

break the fluid walls. “Jesus?” Reed raised his eyebrows. “For the church thing. You’d have to grow a beard,” she said. “A real one.” Reed jutted his chin out, both arms reaching toward some point above her.

“I could grow a beard.” “Your wife won’t care?” The bubble stayed whole. “I could grow a beard,” he said again. *** Brian called the next morning. “I just passed a taco stand,” he said. “I can’t

remember the last time I had Mexican food.” Faye was on her balcony. She had been trying to grow potted herbs and held the phone between her ear and shoul-der while she clipped white buds from the basil. “And I found a James.”

“Great,” said Faye. “I found Jesus.” Brian didn’t laugh as she expected and she wondered if she had offended him, but he asked who and she told him it was Reed.

“I don’t know if he’s the right guy,” Brian said. “He has reddish hair,” Faye said. “Do you know anyone else with red hair?” “But it’s Jesus,” said Brian. “It’s an aesthetic,” said Faye. She gathered the buds in her hand and dropped

them over the railing. They had no weight at all. *** Suddenly beards were everywhere. Faye’s bank teller had a beard. So did the

guy at Walgreens. And the deliveryman who gave her advice on running shoes. “Did you order the Asics again?” he said, holding the shoebox while she signed. “They give me blisters.”

“I don’t have big, man feet like you.” She handed the electronic pad back to him.

Continued on p16

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COLOR ME HAPPY #20

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PHOTO by Stephanie Massey

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“I ran the Boston Marathon in Asics.” He punched a few buttons and Faye studied him. He was a short man, a little stocky. No one would peg him as a runner, which made her a little sad, a little proud of him. “Never again. I’m a Brooks fan now.” He looked at her seriously and leaned against the door jamb. He stood there, looking at her. “You need to run a marathon,” he said. Was he flirting?

“When did the beard start?” “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “A while ago. It just felt right.” *** Joel owned an antique store just outside town and had offered to lend a few

props for the shoot. Faye arranged to meet him on a Saturday and Brian insisted on coming, too. “So you don’t overspend,” he had said on the phone. “You’re a spender. I can tell. I’ve seen your shoes.”

“But he’s lending it to us,” Faye said. “Still,” said Brian. On Saturday, Faye almost didn’t pick him up and decided she wouldn’t wait

for him. She had never seen his house, but knew he would be outside waiting for her and felt badly when she was right. Brian was standing at the edge of the driveway with two travel mugs.

“Good morning,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “Green tea. Did I guess right?” Faye said thank you and handed him a page of printed directions.

“I haven’t been there in a few years,” she said. “Do you mind navigating?” Brian seemed pleased. “We need tables, tablecloths, and dishes. Plus, I think we should buy something from Joel for helping us out like this.”

“Sure,” said Brian. He was giving her sidelong glances, a little cheeky, and Faye felt she had to say something about his beard.

“It’s coming along nicely,” she said. She reached out to touch his chin, but thought better of it.

“It’s ok,” Brian said. “Feel.” He took her hand and placed it on his face. It was a good, thick beard.

“Very nice.” She took her hand back, still feeling the prickliness on her palm. He directed turn-by-turn. Faye noticed that he rotated the map as they went,

their primary direction always at the top, north slipping to either side. “So,” he said after about twenty miles. “Reed as Jesus?” “Yup.” “I just don’t get the ‘Jesus vibe’ from him, I guess.” Brian made quotation

fingers. “Turn right up here.” “Who do you get the Jesus vibe from?” Faye turned right. “I don’t know,” said Brian. His face was very placid. He turned his palms up

in front of him. “This is it on the left.” Faye parked the car and they went inside. Joel was behind the counter read-

ing a book. “Oh no, are you growing a beard too?” Faye asked. She examined Joel’s chin, which he tilted upward for her.

“I just didn’t feel like shaving today,” he said. “Let me know what you need, ok?”

Brian found a set of dishes and several long tablecloths. Grey, like Faye had

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said. It would look white on film. When Faye finally sought him out a half hour later, he had the cloth tucked under his arm, talking to Joel about shaving under the jaw line. “So it looks clean,” Brian was saying when Faye appeared from the back room, holding an antique map of the earth to her chest.

“Can we get the two tables in the back? The pine ones?” She set the map on the counter. “And I’d like to buy this.” She nudged Brian who had been carrying around an old handsaw he wanted to purchase, the teeth faintly coated with rust.

On the way home, Brian suggested they stop for lunch. His treat. He in-sisted. So Faye pulled up to a sandwich shop in the movie theater parking lot and they chose a table outside.

“I’m glad you’re our photographer,” Brian said as they looked over the menu. He said it casually, without looking up. It was just what he happened to be think-ing at the moment.

“Me too,” Faye said. She wished she could like him better. He would be a good person to like. “I used to want to be an architect, but I’m glad I switched over.”

Brian smiled. “Why did you switch?” “There was no architecture major at my college,” Faye said. “I triple minored

in, I think, Art and Physics and Math. But then I realized I hated Math and Phys-ics. I mean, I was ok at them. I could jump through the hoops, but I never really got the theories behind the equations. It seemed like the wrong way to approach things.”

Brian nodded. “Yes, there’s no point to that,” he said and she felt a little stu-pid for having rambled. They sat there and smiled at one another for a bit.

“I’m having the banana peanut butter sandwich,” Brian said. “It’ sounds weird, but it’s good.” Faye said she’d have one, too, and began scrolling through her text messages while Brian went inside to order.

“Faye?” she looked up. It was Reed. He was arm in arm with a woman that he introduced as his wife, Amy. They were on their way to a film.

“Oh, you’re the one responsible for this,” Amy said, grabbing a fistful of Reed’s beard. Her smile looked like a model’s.

“Amy loves the beard,” Reed said, shrugging. “He’s never shaving again,” Amy grinned. Her hair was brownish-red, like

Reed’s, but longer. They might have been siblings. That was when Brian reappeared. “They’ll bring the sandwiches out in a min-

ute,” he said to Faye. “Hello Amy. Reed.” Reed looked surprised, but they shook hands. Faye placed a palm on the

back of Brian’s chair when he sat down. *** That night Faye pulled out her negatives of the Sunday Afternoon shoot. Reed

was ridiculous in nearly all of them. He was either looking straight at the camera or smirking when he was supposed to look reverential. The Bordeaux had been in the refrigerator and she was never able to stop the bottles properly. It tasted too acidic. She thought about calling Reed, but kept seeing his wife standing next to him, her hands in his hair. Had he been grinning?

She studied the photos, looking at faces, marking the different measurements

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of light. When Reed finally called, she waited for the third ring to answer. “Amy doesn’t want me to do the shoot,” he said. “But it’s on Sunday,” Faye said. “Why not?” “Something about representing Jesus. Blah blah blah.” Reed made a nerv-

ous sound, something like laughter. “But that’s the whole point.” Faye looked at his face in the photograph. He

did not look appropriately sad. “That’s what I told her,” he said. “I’m still doing it and everything. I just

wanted you to know.” “Ok.” Faye looked at his face in another photo, one with poorer light. It

was the same face, smiling eyes. “I’m looking at the photos from my exhibition. You’re too fucking happy in all of them.”

“I’ve never heard you swear,” said Reed. “It’s the wine.” Faye took a sip, wondering it was audible over the phone. “Everything ok?” “Everything is fine.” “Should I stop by?” Faye took another sip. This time she was sure he could hear it. “No,” she

said. “No. I’ll see you Sunday?” “Yes. Sunday.” *** On Sunday, Brian’s sermon filtered through to the basement where people

were setting up for the shoot. Joel had brought the tables in his pick-up truck and had even ironed the tablecloths. He and Amy had carried them down the steps together while Faye flitted about, readjusting lamps and umbrellas, meter-ing the light.

Reed was sitting on his mark behind the table. He had his wig on and Faye measured the light against his face.

“I need to fill in your beard,” she said, producing a tube of brown mascara. “It’s the wrong color,” Reed said, but held still. “Shut up,” she said without moving her lips and the skin near his eyes crin-

kled as she combed bits of mascara into his hairline, then his beard. “I know what I’m doing.” She put her hand beneath his chin and tilted his face to her. She knew Amy was watching from somewhere. She was vaguely aware of the sermon having ended, of the congregation filtering in, the slight weight of Reed’s chin in her palm. Was Brian lifting children onto the window sill for her? She wondered if she would have to adjust the umbrellas again.

“Almost done,” she said, removing a clump near the corner of Reed’s mouth with her fingernail. He smiled a bit when she did this.

“Ok. I’m finished.” She motioned to Brian who she positioned to Reed’s right. Then she arranged the others and the angles of their bodies, the degrees of their horror, all of it spanning outward from Reed, away from him.

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Kudzu Restless as the interstate, it creeps one foot a day – an exponential reach that sings. Suburban nostalgia ignites a sparkler in my belly: glorious green ruin!

Near this hill is a house rendered in kudzu: the furniture arranged, the piano waiting for fingers. “Death is always at work,” I remember. Invading the invasive, your dress shoes are lost.

Like That – the headlamp that forged a path through the cemetery blinks out. There! – a paparazzi - a litter of lightning bugs.

TWO POEMS by Ashley Roach ____________________________________________________________

Domestic Sinister The relief of stretching flesh, the turning of fall -

lantana begonia. Caterpillar. What will you do if your bird bones break? Gutted and uncomfortable.

But some new ones are beautiful and sing! Gorgeous clementines with purpled poppy lips.

I fear the worst and want for you one that sings

(in the narrow garden all the women are turning to seed).

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Days go by they gather, laugh and become years. I ball them up. Tightly. And stuff them into pockets. I carry them with me everywhere. I go. Electric days, naked nights. They shimmer and sparkle, and if I stop to listen sometimes I can hear them talking/reminiscing. I am obedient to them. These days. I deem them holy. Wake up, move on gather more. To lay on the altar of my life.

In the distance I hear the train – can almost smell the metallic wheel on rail. It makes me wonder – what was it that made you so sad, so lonely you decided you would jump in front of the train rather than on it. I hear the train in the distance and I think of a world of worry catching up with you. ‘wish you’d used that train to keep on running instead of using it to stop.

TWO POEMS by S. Calloway Ready ____________________________________________________________

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STEEL MOVIN’ by Chelsea Lovitt __________________________________________________________ Mississippi comes and goes like the light flicker through the roadside pines when you’re dusk driving in a refurbished model of Norma Sue’s red antique Mercedes convertible. Top’s down, and the sticky cool wind knots your hair and softly sweeps your face, cementing the surreal nature of the moment. Doesn’t feel at all like February. Her cars have always had names like that old leased jungle green BMW in Colo-rado she dubbed “Kermit” or the cream Lexus SUV “Pearl Jam” she flipped when she swerved to not hit a squirrel on Elmer’s Lake Rd. The medium cold Coor’s Light hides between your knees and their second skin jeans, which feel like 400 count cotton after the all day pantyhose. You know the police wouldn’t dare pass by on the back roads, nor poison what we needed. You almost wish they would try. “Grab me another from that cooler back there Chels.” The styrofoam cooler is buried under the flower arrangements and wood. My knuckles battle the rounded square ice that’s melted down between liquid and solid as I dig for the last can. I pause and think about Pop’s hands: calloused, cracked and farm-cancered, but always moving around with mischief. I yank the can, breaking from a stare and involuntary smile. My hand red with needle freeze, aches and flexes open slowly back to life. The sun’s on the verge of death, and we have to turn the boom box radio all the way up in the back, on top of the flowers. The dial’s tuned to an illegible number, on a mystery station, but a juke southern rock ballad starts and fits. Close to one of those times you’d think of a song that would be perfect for the moment, and it comes on. And you feel like things make sense for a while after. That kind of glamour only happens when you’re in a state of motion. In a car, on a plane, train, bus, subway, any mode of transportation really. Seems to be when you’re able to have the best sensations of inspiration. Being in transition is the most comfortable way of living you know. So while in your safe haven, you can create. After seeing a shrink for however many years you could surmise the psy-chosomatic symbolism here is that “I can’t settle.” Or you refuse to. Some say you’re running away. It’s when the world blurs by that everything seems clear. You realize how fast it flies. And when you stop, when you’re still, it’s over. “The scariest way to be described is still,” Norma Sue yelled over the windblown rock-and-roll. The way she said “still” sounded like “steel.” And in that habitual

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self-indulgent stretch to find prestige in being southern, “Steel Magnolias” comes to mind. How easily “stubborn” and “stoic” are understood as synonymous in na-ture down here. Motivations that share value in being like metal. Keeping that re-gional character precious. The worst state to be in is still. “Still flipping burgers, still spending money, still saying they’re gonna do this, still waiting for something to happen, still eating, still drinking, still smoking, still worrying, still trying, still hoping, still breathing...” then, still. To be still means you’ve stopped. Doesn’t it? Whatever action you’re still carrying out is subtly pulling you back from living. Still implies a yawn “oh well” inflection. To be still___. The song is fading into its post-climactic end and the countryside glow gets bluer. Still means you’re absent of change. Of motion. You’re incapable of newness. You can’t create. “I’m depressed when I’m still,” I think to myself. I sink deep down in a hole of boredom that decays any potential. And I still can’t say I’m an artist. The only task I’ve completed lately is finishing this beer, I’m brooding. And crave change more than a sip of the next. Leaving towns every year it seems. My mind is racing as we get closer to the farm. “Still” means the end. The death of the ride, and its introspect. We slowly come to a halt, in a stirred red dirt silence, and sit for a minute. The radio has died on the flowers and beer cans. “Now let’s go sit on the porch and listen to the night-fall,” Norma sighs. “Alright,” I said.

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Asunder Dearest invention, Dearest inventor, I am a man, I am a boat. I am a man, I am a boat. I am a sloop, vexed by neither charter nor headwinds, weather- I am a skiff, in sight of neither harbor nor lighthouse, weather- propelled and zoetic in the sails, as if the swells themselves whipped and thrown about bestially in the sails, as if the wind-satchel indulge my hand at the helm. If I am a man as well as a boat of Aeolus steers me askew. If I am a man as well as a boat then the open sea testifies to my competence and liberty. the open sea testifies to my impotence and servility. I am its author, as I am yours. I am its subject, as I am yours. Invention, my Ithaca, Invention, my Ithaca, I am the measure of your existence, as I am of your I am browbeaten in your presence, as I am in your limitations. absence. Sincerely, your inventor Sincerely, your invention

Quixotic If only windmills could laugh, then we'd hear a chorus: "Giants, you say? Oh please now, don't bore us. We're harmless," they'd say, "obsolete! Read the papers: If you're looking for foes, why then try the skyscrapers! Since you knightly humans are so insistent for giants, Joust the salesmen, the conference-callers, and all of their clients. So now to your steeds, your four-horse Mitsubishis, Only spare us, caballeros -- we're an endangered species. We windmills do naught wicked but to an occasional bird And laze out our days, making you look absurd."

TWO POEMS by Patrick Laughlin __________________________________________________________

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CONTRIBUTORS

___________________________________________________ Mary Ryan Karnes p4. Mary is a sophomore at Oak Grove High School. As an aspiring writer, she is a member of the newspaper staff and debate team and has been writing since she was six. This is her first time being published. Visit her blog, "Nice Blog You Got There" at niceblog419.blogspot.com. Jen Marquardt p9. Jen has a shiny new PhD in English from USM's Center for Writers. She likes red shoes. Chelsea Lovitt p22. Donna Thurman p6. Donna is a native of Hattiesburg and a recent graduate of the University of Southern Mississippi. She majored in Criminal Justice with a minor in Sociology. While in between looking for work she is currently laboring on several writing projects. She has an interest in old stories/fables and how they are passed down through generations and enjoys incorporating them into her works. Mark Langham p8. Mark is a proud dad, drinks copious amounts of espresso and would love it if you checked out conspiracyof-hope.org Ashley Roach p19. Ashley is a former Hattiesburgian currently resid-ing in Memphis, TN. She works for Memphis Public Library as a chil-dren's librarian and writes for The Great and Secret Thing (wwww.thegreatandsecretthing.com) approximately once a week. S. Calloway Ready p7, 21. Stacey is a lover of words who has been processing her thoughts and feelings through free form poetry since childhood. She hopes that her words will conjure special memories for you. When not writing poems, her other creative outlets are pho-tography, yoga, painting and dj’ing with WUSM. She is an aca-demic advisor to students in the Southern Miss Honors College.

Patrick Laughlin p25. Patrick has been in a state of vibration between Louisiana and Mississippi for most of his life and has written several things, all of which seem to be in their own purgatory of constant vibration somewhere between Under-taken and Completed. He has recently come to appreciate this state of being. He doesn't have a criminal record that he is aware of.

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All works are original and belong to the respective artists. Covalence retains no rights to the works and only presents them in this publication with the express permission of said artists.

Stephanie Massey p14. As the love child of psychology and art, sweet sassy Miss Massey spends most of her time embrac-ing the creative process. She graduates in May 2011 and plans to move to Colorado where she hopes to continue her education and one day be an art therapist. Behavior modifi-cation through the creative process is possible. She plans to show the world. F. P. Rockür Mangara p20, 24. Mr. Mangara is a current resident of Hattiesburg. Aside from his everyday job, his interests include photography, the occaisional poem and beer.

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