1

writing a book

thinking of what

to cook

aiming two birds

an eyepatched man

— Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

2

a bit 

of a kick 

sweet and sour 

sauce on fried 

catfish

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin

3

condiments 

on a pink tilapia 

steamer tray

the hot steam

swirls

— Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

iPRAY

I think of this everyday 

of smile & beauty that

projects the free caresses of divinity; swaying my thoughts left to right — 

back & forth as i once pushed it to the digital wind to help me transport

my prayers to you. 

In the dark quiet time 

when I set sail my inner wounded child 

to the current of time… 

I see collection of your image — 

noticing your face breaks in smile welcoming me to your forbidden 

Throne of Grace.

I try smashing through these walls

raised with bricks & iron bars 

to reach you and relay thoughts 

of undoings but reality…

stacks up its odds against me 

with certainty of false affection to come. 

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam

HIGHER-SELF

Thrown underfoot… pressure of

footfall from heavy steel boots

my heart laps on the edge

of kindliness

Sitting there absorbing different

scene from precious moments

lost in the latter time I fell off

of the reason to remain in

this shipwreck

My higher self has risen, broken free

from mortal consciousness of pity

and ego, of arrogance and lustful pride

of spite and hate, of jealousy and envy

of give and take, of here and there

The sleeves of the universe

unfolded clarity this morning that I now

recognize in the shadows — nurturing

in my soul the cherry that bloomed in

the dark: oh, behold the spirited soul!

could you body it? 

— Uchechukwu Onyedikam

GENDER BOX

A highly celebrated Yogi

An ardent Haj going Maulavi

Keeper of commandments 

A “holy than thou” Christian saint

Together they went to the heaven’s gate

O, keeper of the cosmic records

Open the gate of heaven

Let us in, they said in one voice

The keeper of the gate said

Go back to earth

And bring back your other halves

Only complete person is allowed

We sent you together

And together you shall return

All three were dismayed

What does he mean by the other half ?

They asked him

which other half you are talking about, Sir

The wise gate keeper replied

Where is the woman ? 

Further the keeper of gate added

You three acted as male chauvanists

You lived in the prison of gender

Never came out of gender box

You never respected your other half

You must know that every man has whole genome

Male and female together

So does every woman

O Yogi, you pride yourself

For your self contemplation

Yet you never allowed single meditation

Upon the greatness of feminine divine

You never tried to know

How to turn your blood into “liquid love” 

To feed the liquid love – the milk for the babe

How to have infinite patience

While incubating the eggs or

Waiting upon the child

You never tried to contemplate

Why woman chose her costume ?

With a rucksack in front

To practice the self sacrificing

To offer her back to the wolves

But to keep the love child safe.

O, self claimed pious Maulavi

You kept your woman under the tent

She was not the mother of your children

But a reproductive machine

Who after birth

Handed over the child to you

So you could make a swordsman

For your insatiable greed of empire

building

O, keeper of holy commandments

You made a playboy of yourself

The woman was stripped naked

To boast of a civilized world

For your burning desires of material consumption

You made a advertising Mannequin of the divine feminine

I know you all three are cursing me

But the truth must prevail

For in heaven

Only one dharma has dominion

That is the dharma of truth

Wise ones say thus

There is no religion greater than religion of truth ( सत्यात् नास्ति परो धर्मः)

So please go back to earth 

And only return when you are complete human being

Then, the Yogi implored thus

O, divine self be our Guru

And give us the discerning eye

The wisdom eye (उपनयन) that sees only truth.

The divine gate keeper said thus

You must come out of the gender box

Either you contemplate the feminine divine of your genome

Or be a woman in next birth

So you can be witness to the glory

of feminine divine.

And incorporate the truth in your DNA

Know it well gentlemen,

The gender box is the last gate upon earth

And it equally applies to women as well

And every man and woman must come out of their gender boxes

Before you could reach to the gate of heaven.

And let the truth prevail upon earth.

June 14, 2018

……..

Divine Woman

Evolution lovingly refined a woman

Indeed so much more than a man

Crowning her with deeply loving attitude

And with life sustaining deep ecology of gratitude.

Godly attitudes come to a woman

More naturally than a man

Love, empathy, care and patience

Come to her more easily than beastly violence.

Evolution wrapped her body into a beautiful dress

And gave her a tiara of a living goddess

She is embodiment of divine human passion

Evolution made her mother of human nation.

How a man allows the beast to dominate him ?

Why a man gives in to his animalistic whim ?

Why a man behaves so insane and wild ?

Violating a sister, mother and an innocent girl child.

It is high time that all earth nations of man

Rise above gender injustice and sadistic pain

Man must transcend the beastly male chauvinism

His beast must evolve into divine human organism.

A LIGHT SNOWFALL ON THE SIDEWALKS

It is the time,

the Times,

to be writing

about…

the place I visit

as often as

Time allows–

Canada, to be

the place I write

about–

I know you

my country–

damn the politicians

and all the time

lies use their mouths,

to fool the clock,

fool us, fool the fools.

It is time,

the place I find

is my country–

Canada, I want

better for you–

can I speak of you

like you are a you?

Canada,

you allow me to know

travels, many times away,

as someone calls it–

“a time away”– I will

take it, Canada,

I want to write

about you–

damn the Liars!

All the time

it has taken me

to become, to merge

into the Times,

right here where we

can easily touch

something…or somehow

someone real close…

very real…please.

A DEFINITION OF FREEDOM

So far,

as a

Canadian,

I

can say

whatever

I want

to the

World.

WHY SHOULD I WRITE ABOUT LOVE

Robert Smith

unlike any other

Smith

has come through,

until this morning

his song titles

hadn’t reached me,

but today I

take upon me

the cure

and open

that which has always opened

when great songs

have reached me,

I have been through it,

and so have

so many others

who won’t allow themselves

to be shut down,

to be dumbed down,                            to be the witnesses,

to become the ones

you know you are,

as Allison Goldfrapp                            has asked us

to become, the ones

who must lead now,

the ones who knew

what to do with Love,

unlike me,

at the end

ready to walk endlessly

into all the voices

trying to be human,

but were fooled, were

led from their true voice,

were no different

than the voices of

the Wild, they didn’t know

they possessed,

the voices that led me

into a place

I never want to leave,

now the place, with you,

please stay with me.

Chad Norman, Truro, NS, Canada

His poems have appeared for nearly 40 years in literary publications across Canada, as well as a number of other countries around the world, also translated into Albanian, Spanish, Polish, Chinese, Turkish, Italian, Czech, Vietnamese, Portuguese,  and Hungarian.

In October 2016 he was invited by the Nordic Assn. for Canadian Studies to give talks on Canadian Poetry and read from his books at Borupgaard Gym in Copenhagen, and Risskov Gym in Aarhus, as well as other readings in both cities, and Malmo, Sweden. Because of that tour Norman started the manuscript, Counting Coins In Denmark And Sweden.

 In October of 2017 he read at various Eastern Canada venues in Kingston, Ottawa, and Montreal, reading poems from his Selected and New collection, published by Mosaic Press (Oakville, ON).

In October of 2018 he read at various types of venues from universities to cafes to pubs throughout Ireland, Scotland, Wales, while there he visited Swansea and slept three nights in the room where Dylan Thomas was born. A celebration of Canadian Poetry took place during this tour too.

His most recent books are a children’s picture book, B And Boy, 2023, Cyberwit. Net (India), and a new collection, Parental Forest,  out with AOS publications (Montreal).

Finally, Norman’s poem, The Shoulds, has been selected to be included in the Vagabond Lunar Collection, part of the time capsule scheduled for a Fall launch to the moon.

 He is currently a member of  The Writers Union Of Canada, PEN Canada, and a volunteers for 12 local crow families.

Review of Anna Keiko’s Painting: Contemporary Expression in the Context of Art History

By: Rizal Tanjung

Anna Keiko’s painting presents an expressionist approach with the use of vibrant colors and bold brushstrokes, creating a dynamic and emotionally charged composition. This work appears to be part of contemporary art, emphasizing individual expression and freedom of form. To understand Anna Keiko’s position in the evolution of world painting, we must examine the long history of visual art from prehistoric times to the contemporary era.

The Evolution of Painting: From Prehistory to Modernism

Painting has undergone a long evolution, reflecting humanity’s cultural and intellectual development.

1. Prehistoric and Ancient Art (40,000 BC – 476 AD)

The cave paintings in Lascaux, France, and Altamira, Spain, are early examples of human visual art.

Ancient Egyptian, Greek, and Roman art began to show structured composition, perspective, and symbolism.

2. The Middle Ages (476 AD – 1400 AD)

Painting was dominated by religious iconography with Byzantine and Gothic styles.

The use of gold colors and flat perspectives reflected spiritual values rather than realism.

3. The Renaissance (1400 AD – 1600 AD)

Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael revolutionized art with scientific perspective and realistic human anatomy.

Art became more human-centered, emphasizing intellectual exploration.

4. Baroque and Rococo (1600 AD – 1800 AD)

Artists like Caravaggio and Rembrandt highlighted chiaroscuro (light-dark contrast).

Rococo was more decorative and feminine, with soft colors and pastoral themes.

5. Neoclassicism and Romanticism (1750 AD – 1850 AD)

These movements combined classical elegance with emotional expression.

Artists like Jacques-Louis David and Francisco Goya challenged academic traditions.

6. Impressionism and Post-Impressionism (1860 AD – 1900 AD)

Claude Monet and Vincent van Gogh emphasized light effects and spontaneous colors.

Post-Impressionism (Gauguin, Cézanne) focused more on structure and emotion.

7. Modernism and Avant-Garde Movements (1900 AD – 1950 AD)

Cubism (Picasso, Braque) deconstructed forms.

Expressionism (Kandinsky, Munch) highlighted subjective emotions.

Surrealism (Dalí, Magritte) explored the subconscious.

Contemporary Art and Anna Keiko’s Position in Artistic Evolution

Anna Keiko appears to follow the path of abstract expressionism, which emerged after World War II, where freedom of expression became the core of artistic creation. Artists like Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning popularized this style with spontaneous gestures and expressive use of color.

In her painting, Keiko combines intense contrasting colors and distorted figurative forms, reminiscent of German Expressionism (such as Egon Schiele) with a touch of Neo-Expressionism (such as Jean-Michel Basquiat). This combination suggests that she is part of the contemporary art movement, continuously exploring the boundaries of form, emotion, and interpretation.

Anna Keiko’s painting reflects the evolution of art, which has undergone numerous transformations from prehistoric times to the digital era. Through her expressive approach, she becomes part of a generation of contemporary artists who continue the tradition of experimentation and artistic freedom. In the context of art history, Keiko’s work manifests the modern spirit—unbound by classical rules but focusing on human expression and subjectivity.

West Sumatra, March 19, 2025.

One Sonata

Walt wrote without music. Ridiculous or astonishing, Chopin, Dvořák

and Schubert were of his age, Song of Myself, the melody forthright,

fortissimo, long before Edison, the parlor Victrola. For Walt, there were

endless days and nights of silence, the Moonlight, no roaring jets

overhead, no revving motors, rude harpies to end a century, occasionally,

a far-off steam whistle, a cannon across the Potomac, the Pastoral 

“bravuras of birds, the bustle of wheat,” an opening of cherry blossoms,

the usual ruckus, the vast, crackling expanse of America, the aftermath

of battles, piteous cries in the grass. Walt must have heard more than

banjo and fiddle, something rare crossing the Atlantic – Beethoven,

a concert once or twice in Brooklyn or Camden. Searching for brother

George in the abundance of limbs, a piano in Washington, a soldier

on the ward played one sonata, the Appassionata (no Eroica).

Walt wept over Pathétique, over the blue and gray pallor of boys.

Now you, if you so choose, not the elect, listen. Simply click, proceed

to checkout. Why remain heedless? Will you weep over one sonata?

My Arms Fell Off

My arms fell off, my dread in a dream, a routine nightmare, actually. I stood bewildered: shall I scream or shrug, “Oh well?” I was convinced I was reduced to the mechanism of my bones.

On our farm, our yellow tabby tomcat, Tom, continued to sire many yellow tabby kitten litters after losing a leg and tail to the mowing machine.

On TV, Bonnie Consolo, about the same age as my mother, was born with no arms. With two feet and a husband, Frank, she raised two boys, Matthew and Mark, in Columbus, Ohio. She washed dishes and drove Mike Wallace to the airport after the interview. For Bonnie, arms might have been handy but certainly superfluous.

I was struck by a stark, black and white image from the Civil War: a heap of limbs outside a tent and the surgeon posed with a saw in hand. What did a young man do when he returned home, when the nation reconciled?

If my arms fell off, I would be useless for work, making love, the simplest of caresses. I would miss swinging them airily on a stroll, nudging with an elbow, wringing my hands when anxious.

Where would my arms go, buried ahead of the rest of me? A ceremony?

The dream, an augury: use these bones happily while attached, thumping cantaloupe at the market a wonder. And if I happen to misplace one or two, I’ll somehow forge my days

despite their absence.

My stomach hurts right after writing the title. I’ve avoided this grief as it’s so real that it begins to hurt physically. But somewhere Tessa knows how I feel. She was my dog, but also my friend. We spent years walking the forests, its verdant valleys and then sunny summits, also surveying streams and more open, pastoral places. And we went in all seasons, unafraid and confident. 

In time, the old girl slowed down a bit, and many of her whiskers had turned grey. I watched her and she watched me, maybe knowing that time had begun to call her to a further, unknown destiny. But we carried on. One day she became sick, and got better for a while, but then became ill again. The vet said she had cancer. She had thrown up and eliminated a lot of blood, and was in pain. The more humane action at that point was to put her down, to let her go, and that’s what occurred. I was there with her the whole time and held her, assured her. 

I think I helped her in those last moments and that they were with as little pain as possible. But what or where is this assurance afterwards against grief for myself? It is for me like a light rain coat or thin sweater in minus 20 degree Celsius winter weather. 

Therefore, it’s no assurance or insurance whatsoever. 

I am caught in the storm.  

And, as the storm brags its vexatious winds, bullying, and as those winds blow cold snow upon my already troubled countenance, a demeanour of frustration and withdrawal and plain stupid pain, I try and think of better days…

It was warm when I retrieved her from a small northern rescue outfit. An old woman and man, obviously good souls, ran the shelter which consisted of a large fenced area in back of their property. They relied on donations for almost everything and had an agreement with vets in training somewhere to perform necessary operations to prevent the dogs from being taken by breeders. They were the n the middle of an almost God forsaken climate of mosquitoes though, for there was a series of bogs or swamps close by that allowed many more mosquitoes to breed than a regular summer place even rural. 

That’s why Tessa always not only disliked mosquitoes like anyone or any animal would, she absolutely abhorred them and it was noticeable if one or a fly even went near her. 

I’d asked to go in the cage where dogs were barking, especially Tessa. The old caretaker, grey hair disheveled, clothing torn through age and hard work, and unrepaired in places, had said, ‘If you want. Go ahead. Nobody has asked to do that before.’ I went in and Tessa barked at me nonstop. But I could see she was not an aggressive soul but rather a scared soul. 

When it was time to travel home she lay in the van just in the middle a bit behind me and stopped barking. Looking up at me I could see her saying to the universe at that time something akin to, ‘Oh. He is the one. He has come to rescue me and bring me to a forever home. He is not a threat and I can relax a bit now.’

Not bad Tessa. That day I took you out of the humid mosquito infested world and we left with air conditioning and a water bowl you’d not have share. 

In life she could never completely relax, for God knows what trauma or abandonment Tessa endured in the beginning of this life. But for her, she came a long way through the years and was comfortable as possible. 

They say not to use cliches, but who are they exactly at the end of the day and what do they know? Other than a spelling mistake or some real structural error, I was never too concerned with what some stranger, or school of thought, had to say.

Everyone is an expert, aren’t they?

Tessa had a good run, maybe a great run all things considered. 

I did the best I could, each and every day. 

And, most importantly, Tessa is in a better place now. 

As for the grief, my stomach still hurts, and though it’s uncomfortable I’m not afraid. 

——

Memory Show

Characters:

Willa

Justin

Amelia

Male Chorus

Female Chorus

Note: Chorus roles can be divided between one or two males and one or two females.

Willa: (To audience) It was my first solo art show. I was the low man on the totem poll, so they gave me a Tuesday. The budget was small but at least I got to choose the food myself. I tried to pack as much symbolism into the hors d’oeuvres as possible.

Justin: (To audience) It was my wife who found the invitation to Willa’s art show, delivered to our home. My wife who booked the plane and the hotel.

Chorus/Wife: You haven’t seen this woman since what, high school? She always sends us thoughtful presents on Madelyn’s birthday. You’re going, game over. Wife wins fight before fight happens.

Justin: (Sigh) Yes Hon.

(to audience) Suddenly I found myself in a small downtown New York gallery, wondering exactly how I’d gotten there.

Willa: (To Justin) You want to know how you got here? How both of us did?

Justin: Um….(Implied: No, but you’re about to tell me anyway)

Willa: Justin and I—(points to him) That guy— began our adventure, winding slowly toward friendship, immediately following high school English class.

Justin: Ah, here we go. This memory.

Chorus/Teenage Willa: Hi, Justin.

Chorus/Teenage Justin: Hi…(searching for her name) Willa.

Chorus/Teenage Willa: May I speak to you?

Justin: (To Willa) Why would you ask such a silly question? We were already speaking!

Willa: Shhh. Let us talk! I mean, let teenage us talk!

Chorus/Teenage Justin: …Yes?

Chorus/Teenage Willa: I would very much like to be your friend.

Justin: (To Willa) We were about to end junior year. The timing, much like you, was odd.  

Willa: I know, right? And I knew it then, too.

Chorus/Teenage Willa: I know we don’t have unlimited time.

Willa: See? I’m a genius!

Justin: Yeah yeah, be quiet. Let yourself talk.

Chorus/Teenage Willa: I was thinking…can we please spend the summer getting to know each other? And also, I’m not asking you out.

Justin: Were you reading my mind?

Willa: Sort of. I was reading your face. I’m a visual artist. That which makes me crazy also makes me psychic.

Justin: This is getting confusing, this memory within a memory. I’m no longer sure to whom it belongs. Which one of us is speaking?

Willa: Oh. Right. (To audience) He wrote down his number and gave it to me.

Chorus/Teenage Justin: I’m pretty busy this summer. But we can hang out a few times, sure.

Justin: I thought, maybe she won’t pursue this. Maybe this will just be one of those things that are hinted at, but ultimately come to nothing.

Willa: Yeah right. As if I wouldn’t spend the next decade-plus pursuing you….

Justin: Pursuing me…

Chorus/Teenage Willa: Pursuing….

Chorus/Teenage Justin: Me…

Willa: But your friendship only, nothing more than that. “Nothing more than that,” what a silly phrase, as if friendship alone weren’t worth the world entire.

Justin: And now I’m here. At your art show.

Willa: Yes, and I’m glowing. For so many reasons. (pause) No, not that. Although I suppose I am pregnant in a way….pregnant with the origins of creation.

Justin: Before you go on one of your artsy abstract meta-rants…

Willa: (to audience) Oh man, he knows me so well!

Justin: Let’s center ourselves. At your art show—which my wife made me attend—could you tell how guilty I felt?

Willa: No, I figured you were just uncomfortable for the usual reasons. Unless I’m engaged or married to you, I tend to have that effect of men. (To Chorus/Husband) I love you, Baby! Thanks for putting up with me!

Chorus/Husband: Don’t mention it.

Justin: It wasn’t you. I mean it was, but…I should have invited you to my wedding. I should have sent you a picture of Madelyn before she was a year old.

Willa: I’m not angry. I love you. I’m so glad you’re here. Listen to me, I, I, I, it’s all about me, god, artists are insufferable. Oooh, wine!

Justin: (To audience) And that’s when things begin to get weird.

Willa: “Begin to”…I’m sorry, are we still sharing the same memory?

Justin: Go away.

Willa: What?

Justin: You aren’t here for this. You and your husband—

Willa: Fiancé, at this point.

Justin: You and Theodor are in the corner drinking wine and having some dorky conversation at this point.

Willa: …Yup, that sounds like my relationship. Excuse me. (Goes to Husband/Chorus)

(Amelia enters)

Amelia:  Justin?

Justin: Yes, how did you know? Are all the people at this art show obsessed me with me? (to audience) I don’t think I said that last part aloud. I really, really hope I didn’t.

Amelia: I recognized you from Willa’s portrait of you. It’s iconic, in its own right. One of her best, I would say.

Justin: Oh. Right. (To audience) Well good, then. That’s only mildly unsettling. (To Amelia) And your name is?

Amelia: Amelia Valeri.

Justin: I’ve heard of you.

(To audience)

Willa’s best friend from college. I’ve heard way too much about Amelia. And seeing her now, for the first time, there’s nothing wrong with this woman. But it was disconcerting to see, in person, someone Willa described as a saint, an angel, a goddess, her soul mate. I never imagined Amelia having actual human hair. It’s…shiny.  

(To Amelia)

Don’t you and Willa sometimes chastely kiss? How could anyone kiss you and keep it chaste? You’re carnality embodied.  And yet you’re…Metaphysically ethereal? Your sweat must be nectar. But harder, human. Flesh against mine is alchemy, branch against branch, we’ll make fire.

(To Willa)

Great, now I’m starting to sound like you.

Willa: Sorry.

Justin: (To audience)

No. I’m only ethereally attracted to Amelia. That’s all. She’s a painting I’m looking at too hard and my focus gets distorted. It has nothing to do with sex, I mean gender, I mean the sexuality of our genders. God, what is this, my first ever epileptic seizure?

Willa: They don’t make you so articulate.

Justin: Go back to talking to your husband.

Willa: You’re the boss. It’s only my art showing, but whatever.

Justin: Let me kiss you. Just once. Ten feet away from Willa, from her paintings, the hors d’oeuvres, and most importantly, miles away from my wife and daughter, in this safe space that can never actually exist.

Amelia: Sure, whatever, I’m like a gin and tonic past finding this weird. (They kiss, passionately)

Justin: Um….I have to go now. Willa, can you take over for awhile?

Willa: Dude, no problem, I got this.

Justin steps back into the Chorus area. Willa replaces him.

Willa: So?

Amelia: So what?

Willa: Justin! I can’t believe he came!

Amelia: Oh. Him.

Willa: Yeah. It’s seriously, I just, it’s, you know, it’s a dream come true, you two meeting.

Amelia: What a boring dream. Aim higher. Really, Willa, you have no ambition.

Willa: ….You know this is my art show, right? In New York? (pause) City?

Amelia: Certainly I do. I helped you pick the wine. Speaking of which….

(she walks back to the chorus)

Willa: (calling after her, desperately) I love you, Amelia!

(To audience) I did. And I do. There is no beginning of the end. The end has many beginnings. In hindsight, that might have been one of them. Either way, even now, it stings.

Justin: (Joining her)

I know, Willa. God. I know. (They embrace)

Willa:  (still in his arms) You did not embrace me then. Not until my wedding.

Justin: I couldn’t. I was too self-conscious about the erection I’m not entirely sure I had. Bad enough as a metaphor, but god forbid you’d think it was for you.

Willa: I wouldn’t have. I knew better than that. (pause) Why didn’t you tell me?

Justin: Tell you?

Willa: That you were in love with Amelia? After knowing her a minute? It took me a full five minutes to fall so deeply in love with her. I’m impressed with how quickly you caught on.

Justin: (horrified and impressed) My god, how did you…

Willa: Since we were sixteen or seventeen, whenever we’re in the same room, I’m aware of your motion. Attuned to your heartbeat, almost.

Justin: Oh. That’s not at all disturbing.

Willa: I know, right? Sorry. I feel your emotions but I’m still oblivious to sarcasm.

Pause

Justin: I didn’t tell you, because I guess I knew how happy you’d be. And I wasn’t…ready for intimacy on that level. Not with you.

Willa: I get it, Justin. I really do. (To Justin and audience) There is an odd, distinct sorrow that accompanies the best day of your life.

My two greatest non-sexual muses, one from high school, one from college, under the same roof in a room filled with art! My art! That’ll scratch the ego’s g spot.

Chorus/Husband: (Jokingly, deadpan) You know I’m standing right here.

Willa: Quiet Theodor, being my husband doesn’t give you the right to critique my inner monologue.

Chorus/Husband: Oh my sweet baby. Read the fine print.

Willa: OK moving on. Anyway, there’s a paradox to the best day of your life. It casts a shadow, it haunts you. My wedding, in contrast to my first showing, was painted in pastels. Lovely, of course, but the climax had passed.

(Lights change slightly. Chorus and Amelia fade into background.)

Justin: I never kissed Amelia. I called my wife instead. I listened to my daughter breathe, and in doing so remembered to breathe myself.

Willa: When you came to my wedding, did you think Amelia would be there?

Justin: I did not for a moment doubt it.

Willa: Our Amelia was alive when I took my vows. She had six months left before…well, before things got bad.

Justin: Do you think that we’re glamorizing her?

Willa: Oh, certainly. That’s what living people do.

Justin: Why do I love a woman I met once, briefly? In what world does that make sense?

Willa: I’m an artist, don’t ask me for logic.

Justin: I didn’t know her.

Willa: Did you cheat on your wife?

Justin: No, and now I never will. I mean…I never would have…Fuck me, life is complicated!

Willa: Aw, baby, I’ve been saying that for years.

Justin: Did you just call me baby?

Willa: Yes, but I meant it non-sexually. I call everybody baby, or sugarcrotch, don’t overthink it. Kidding.

Justin: (pause) Yeah so life is complicated. I love my wife, but the memory of kissing my friend’s friend haunts and warms me as if it were real.

Willa: But we are friends. And you came to my wedding. And my showing.

Justin: That part, yes. That part is real.

Willa: And at the day of my showing, my happiest day….

Justin: I remember where all your art was on the wall…my visual memory’s not usually so precise…

Willa: I clasped your hand between mine and said….

Justin: Willa. It took me almost a decade to be comfortable saying your name.

Willa: …Justin.

Justin: I love my wife, my daughter, your dead friend, and you, in that order…

Willa: Justin! (Implied: Be quiet!)

Justin: What?

Willa: (Holding his hand) Thank you for coming.

END

Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist. Her poems, plays, short stories, philosophical essays, paintings, drawings and photographs have been published both online and in print. Publications include Spinozablue, Third Wednesday Magazine, [Alternate Route], Paddler Press, Verse-Virtual, Macrame Literary Journal, Sublunary Review, Quail Bell Magazine, Superpresent, Clockwise Cat, Ranger Magazine, Fowl Feathered Review, The Ravens Perch, 10 By 10 Flash, Waffle Fried, House of Arcanum, Synchronized Chaos, Well Read Magazine, Hidden Peak Press, Third Street Review, and Litbop.  @alainaheidelberger on Instagram. Playwright’s note: Memory show was first produced at Manhattan Repertory Theatre, January 2016. It starred Alaina Hammond as Willa, Michael Bordwell as Justin, London Griffith as Amelia/Female Chorus, and Dave Stishan as Male Chorus.

Playwright’s note: Memory show was first produced at Manhattan Repertory Theatre, January 2016. It starred Alaina Hammond as Willa, Michael Bordwell as Justin, London Griffith as Amelia/Female Chorus, and Dave Stishan as Male Chorus.