Sinners by Mila Holt

When I was ten,       my dying mother moved

to the first floor:      wheelchair,      two kids,   no 

husband,     snapped bones.        She howled

like a freight train.

              Did I take up the piles on the stairs?         She         

 wouldn’t know one way or the other.      

                I cat pawed past her full chamber pot,

         wouldn’t do favors after her response to my 

simple request:   

          when my friend comes over could you please

act normal?

      At eighteen I had sex with my boyfriend’s roommate

 in a campus building under construction.     

          Electrician’s light bulbs hung in cages.

   We did it on the staircase.      My boyfriend

howled our names from the unfinished stage,   

            The two people he trusted the most.               

 

                Is it enough to forgive oneself? 

Mila Holt has an MFA from Pacific University, where faculty awarded her the merit-based Washburn Scholarship. Her work has been accepted to The Calyx Journal, The Vassar Review, One Art Journal, Trampoline, and other publications. She is a former television writer and she lives in Northern California.

In Response to Matthew Olzmann’s “Letter to the Person Who Carved His Initials into the Oldest Living Longleaf Pine in North America” by Steve Cushman

I was the one who carved his initials into the oldest living Longleaf Pine in North America.
Well, my initials and Julie’s too, which you conveniently left out of your poem,
which is a poem I actually enjoyed until I realized it was about me.
You’d think they’d erect a fence or some barrier around such a special tree.
Maybe there is one now because my knife-carving occurred 16 years ago,
back when I was young and in love and believed this love more important than anything else.

Have you ever been in love, Mr. Poet?
Have you ever tasted something so sweet you couldn’t breathe?
I would guess not because if you had you would realize that when you are in love like this
it consumes you, and you would kill to keep it going.
I’ve never injected drugs, but imagine the feeling must be like an addict’s need
for more and more.
So would I do it again if Julie came back to me, knowing what I now know?
Of course, I would.
I’d cut the damn thing down just to feel her in my arms again,
her lips, teeth there, nibbling on the tip of my ear.



Steve Cushman has published three novels, including Portisville, winner of the 2004 Novello Literary Award. His first full-length collection, How Birds Fly, won the 2018 Lena Shull Book award. Cushman’s latest poetry collection The Last Time, was published in 2023.

From the Clown Face Menu—Horne’s Department Store Restaurant on a 1950s Saturday by Joan Leotta

From the moment the
waitress handed me the menu
it became a mask of sorts,
and I would begin telling
a round of jokes only a mother,
grandmother would find funny.

They knew I already had my
order in mind—same thing
every Saturday—BBQ chipped ham
on a bun. Likely it was chips on the side.

From the moment we began
walking to our table, the
aroma of this delight wafted
around me while other shoppers’
children devoured it nearby.
Islay’s chipped ham, wafer thin and
chopped small, blended its
porky sweet holiday smell
with Horne’s secret blend of molasses,
brown sugar, a bit of ketchup,
and did I taste cloves and ginger too?

The ham was simmered in the
reddish orange sauce, served
on a white, gold-banded, plate.
I spent at least five minutes
simply inhaling those intoxicating
odors before lifting the sandwich
to my mouth. Often, I abandoned
the bun which all too quickly
became a sodden mess and
finished what I could with a fork.

The concoction was even
slightly too sweet even for me.
My mother never forced me
to finish. I think
she disliked the whole idea of BBQ chipped ham.
In all honesty, my favorite
way to devour chipped ham was on
white bread with mayo or mustard.
I’m not sure if it was the clown menu,
the other children lapping it up
as if it were the only food in the world,
or simply for the joy of
having that magical aroma set in
front of me.

After lunch, a bit more shopping,
then home where the house would
soon fill with aromas of basil,
oregano, tomato sauce.
Saturday shopping days downtown
ended for our family,
sometime in the early sixties.
I understand that in Pittsburgh
chipped ham has found its
way into grocery stores. But
I’ve never heard of anyone selling
bottles of that sauce—I’d love
to buy one, just to keep around
for the occasional sniff of childhood.



Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, novelist, she’s a multiple nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Publications include One Art, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Mackinaw, The Ekphrastic Review, Yellow Mama, Red Eft Review, and Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Her story programs highlight food, family, and strong women. Presenting as Louisa May Alcott, she highlights the author’s development as a writer, activist, and time as a Civil War nurse. Joan’s taught storytelling and writing, for many groups, at libraries and in schools.