Spring 2008

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 1


Poetry    Interview    Translations    Fiction    Book Reviews

Stevie Cenko


First Words Remembered: Trust Me

Every Sunday
Holy Day
my mother would
diligently iron
five sets of
my father’s
pants and shirts
to look presentable
at the factory

It seemed to take hours

Once when finished
my older brother
told me to place
my hand on the
ironing board
the iron standing upright
my mother in the other room

No. You’re going to hurt me

Trust me, he said

I placed my tiny hand
palm down onto the ironing board

he ironed my hand
would not let off too soon

My hand still bears the scar
of the iron
of the triangle
of trust


Your Truck

I love riding around
with you in your
beat up pick up truck

Its paint chipped
and faded blue
It’s Ram’s head
still proudly sits
front and center
on the hood

There’s the snorkel
tied to the outside of
the driver’s side

Your windshield
spider-web cracked
with the toy Airwolf
helicopter applied
as though it crashed
into it

The canoe or row boat
tied to the roof
depending on what
day of the week
it is

The telescope hidden
and protected in a long
heavy woolen sock
on the dashboard
or front seat

The paint brushes
empty foam
and plastic cups
work gloves
water shoes
and a bicycle chain
on the passenger’s
side floor

You have a black baby
Raggedy Andy doll
in a blue bucket
in the bed of the truck
I held him
and brought him
in with me
when we did laundry

Clothes pins
plastic utensils
legal papers
sit in your
open glove box

The rubber boot is missing
from your stick shift
and I can see down
to the ground

A tortoise-colored comb
with a hole drilled
in for a clip
to attach
to wherever
it will fit

A black bandanna
buckets and boxes
of I don’t know whats

Loose change in an empty-
looking capless orange juice
appearing carelessly
scattered on the floor

Squeaky windows
when cranked up and down

fins, hoses
a wet suit
a suitcase

A giant shell button
(I took for myself
You said it was
your mother’s)

Homeless keys and key chains
Paper towels from gas stations

Pens, matches
paper bags
plastic bags
A weight lifting belt

It’s a junk yard on wheels
but it feels
like home


© Stevie Cenko



Poetry    Interview    Translations    Fiction    Book Reviews

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