The

Mill

Spring

2011

Hello everyone,

First off let me thank you for picking up the inaugural

issue of The Mil l, the University of Toledo’s student based

lit mag. It’s so great to see the writing community here at

the university get excited about this magazine.

I’d like to thank everyone that helped put this to-

gether, ranging from the contributors to the editors, and

not to forget the faculty supporters that helped this maga-

zine get off the ground. We’ve had a lot of great contribu-

tions and it was quite a challenge to select submissions to

print, and if your submission was not selected for this

issue, please try again in the future. I hope, and I know the

other editors agree, that you all enjoy this magazine, and

keep the interest alive for future semesters.

Peter Faziani

Chief Editor - The Mill

TheMillMagazine@Gmail.com

Editorial Board:

Andrew Field

Charles Kell

Chris Riley

Peter Faziani - Chief Editor

Matt Sackmann

Rebecca Stanwick

Kelly Thompson

All Copyright reverts back to the author.

Cover design by Rebecca Stanwick

Layout by Peter Faziani

The Mill Ohio silhouette design by Andi Coulter

Assistant Editors:

Table of ContentsContest Winner: Will iam Guthei l

In the Basement

Elaina Aponte

Arroz Con Leche/Después

Repairs Along the LZ Strip

Samuel Arnold

Six Days Short A Dozen in Nazareth

Blair Bohland

Ghost Framework

Lawrence Car ter

Train Burns

Nathan Elias

The Burning Valley Midwest Twenty-Three

Sam Fetters

Dirt City

Month One/Month Two

Adam Gel l ings

John Steinbeck

Wednesday

Unsettling

Will iam Gutheil

TGIF

Magdalena Hirt

1729: Franklin

Thighs

6

7

8

10

13

14

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

25

26

Toledo

Joshua Klein

5AM

An Ode to Goodness

Douglas Lutman

May I Tell You a Secret?

John Malich

A Map Soundtrack

Josh Mooney

Asleep in the Upper Peninsula

Small Quarters

Cody Riebe

Clark Lake

The Girl with the Patent Leather Face

Kevin Risner

Istanbul #1

Granada

Alaina Schnapp

Ganymede

Dust in Siefer

A Penguin’s Love

Morrison Wilson

Friends

Kentucky After the Concert

27

28

30

31

32

33

34

37

38

40

41

42

43

44

45

6

In the Basement Will iam Gutheil

The red handled hammer,

Handed down by his father,

The drill bits bought in yard sales.

The clogged tips on wood-glue bottles

And a mismatched set of screwdrivers.

Nails pulled from recycled wood

A clamp at the corner of the table

Scraps of lumber in a box underneath,

With paint cans of every color.

Nuts and bolts and rusty washers

Thrown in little plastic drawers,

Pieces of plastic and aluminum,

Screws that had been used before.

On top once sat all the forgotten projects

I'd constructed years ago.

But I've left home, and papa's taken back

The workbench that he built for me.

The unfinished photo frames,

And bookshelves and birdhouses,

The Christmas gifts I'd worked so

Tirelessly on.

All disassembled.

Now in their place, papa sets his drinks,

A couple dozen empty bottles at least.

He ashes a cigar

And curses momma's name

Where he taught me how to build

Model planes.

Winner of the 2011 The Mill Magazine Poetry/Fiction Contest

7

Rice, milk and a little sugar,

Each with a sweetness and tang.

Dessert in an island home.

The children are restless;

Giggling and squirming in their chairs,

Just able to see over the table,

Calling for abuela in the next room.

She smiles and walks to the table,

Carrying little yellow bowls.

The children bounce excitedly, revealing toothy grins.

Their favorite treat awaits them.

Spoons clatter, cheeks bulge

And a mess is made.

Abuela does not mind.

Después

Full bellies and drooping eyes,

Grandma sees the children off to bed.

They’ll sleep well tonight,

As waves crash along the shore,

And they’ll dream of breakfast.

To smell the crackling bacon

And ask for milk in their coffee.

They love Grandma’s cooking,

Wish to taste it every day.

Tomorrow they will run to the coop for eggs,

Laughter will fill the house

As Grandma smiles.

Arroz con Leche Elaina Aponte

8

Unkempt hair curling out from a cap.

A toothy grin and bright eyes.

A sharp tongue and staccato laugh.

A weathered leather jacket,

Crinkled, cracking

Yet still somehow smooth.

A Yellow t-shirt stained with grease,

Cargo slacks splotched with dust.

Long fingers search for a gear,

A wrench poised in the other hand.

Whistling the chorus of “Hey Jude”

And a Spanish song of which

Only he knows the meaning.

A sky washed with white light

Horizon dancing with heat;

Sand spiraling from the thickly treaded tires

Of passing Humvees.

He lies in the shadow of the ‘whirly bird.’

Slumped on the makeshift runway,

It casts angular and skeletal shadows.

Repairs Along The LZ Strip

9

Rotors creak like a rusty fence,

Dying for a little bit of oil.

The engine pops, still hot to touch;

His untied boots wiggle happily underneath.

She’s just a rusty old friend,

With a dirty windshield

Streaked clean by his hand.

A curse disrupts his singing,

But the toothy smile remains,

A slice of white against the filth

A happy pilot is a dirty one.

10

Six Days Short a Dozen in Nazereth Samuel Arnold

The eternal cups sit on the head

of the glutton waiting in cello-

phane for the end. Run in red or

ride in yellow, turn the swerve

and wreck the curve. The hand

sounds twelve and dilation’s

point. Two refuse the left of cen-

ter; it does not make them. But

the voice and the eye sit on the

drone, watching. At dark the

Dawn in the corner opens to

blue, and big black Joe wears

weak with the night.

Chapter IV

The mayo melt stack chips the

soul of the sun, and the crack fills

in with the steers and a howl.

On the hour climb the tower to

breathe that bit of death. He asks

and she told him, she misunder-

stood and told him, he told him,

and then he told them.

A man cries we as though his

brother is disease. All the while

the fool and the whore spill onto

the circle or square: Five and one

plus two will dance on that dare.

Chapter I

The dry bodies toss and turn, laid

out atop the green rubber, metal

mount. The sound runs around

the room of a dying beast that

won’t find its end, for which

everyone silently wishes.

Chapter II

These men boast of deeds in

which they played no part, a hol-

low fascination of empty heroics.

Burn‘em as cord, the boasts of a

Quality less than that of which

keeps silent. They laugh as apples

offered in the morning dim. Skin

bright and grateful, the innards

soft and spiteful.

How many others have lain here?

Many I suppose. Some since

silent, much like the purpose and

beauty of this place once in-

tended. Some gone while they lay

here awake. Others, as some,

have yet to die.

Chapter III

The fallen white box locks line up

in a row, trailing off somewhere

behind the hum of the fountain.

11

The friendly freak watcher rum-

bles in the new day.

Chapter V

Do the insane philosophize

mania?

The Fair Creature slips in.

Yes.

It is so.

The insurance man? He’s selling

angels or devils or flux or pride.

Mail of the minute gives love and

luck, and the chrome fiend bends

back the night.

Chapter VI

Fewer faces fend off foul, so the

sun and the trees once again see a

dozen but one who truly believes.

But that one who thinks most will

never think quite enough, and the

meek inherit the earth only with

the bold.

Chapter VII

Hatred finds him for none other

than the soles of his shoe. It was

him. It is known. She was taken.

It is him. The dash of the look.

Real cool. It will be him.

I know now her fright. It did not

grow from the bicycles in flight,

or the quick tenacity of oiled

hinges. The worried watering of

strange possibilities was too

strong and odd to stand. She

knows she doesn’t know, thus the

ship runs aground. And despite

its glory it is doomed. The din be-

comes too loud to bear and bares

the grizzly doubt that snatches at

the ascendance of falling fish.

Freedom. Take it.

So its pick up two, the Blues and

a yellow. Lay one down and re-

verse with a bellow. Draw till

there’s blood then skip your fel-

low.

The chrome fiend returns. How

you doin?

Chapter VIII

Egg noodles and sleaze makes the

end tease three. A taste of the

blight leaves it at two.

The last man knows when the

swarms enclose to scale the pole

and pull the flag. Spin the sphere

and back with the truck. Follow

12

the map and load the round.

Strike the match, set the proud

flag afire. Halt the gun at the tem-

ple and squeeze, then fall with the

rest, for even the full day is no

longer king. So the inches add up

to something like six, the kind of

difference that would have been

all the difference.

Goodnight you jolly chrome

fiend.

Chapter IX

Well we’ve won one more, now

into the gorge. Chase after the

laughter, and the boom, and the

stomp. OneFortyThree in, one to

go. Peel back the spread, an eye

on the pane, with thoughts of

frost and amber rain.

The exploders are dead, they are

no more. New is said, old as

thread. Times choose the good-

byes with a tick and a lie.

The pink slip drip chants the

chance of soon, bringing it closer

too. A numeral here and a letter

there, down the stair and the

sun’s layin’ bare.

Yeah, I’ll be there.

13

Ghost Framework Blair Bohland

You were grand—Once

Upon a time, as far as stories go.

And yet here you stand; dilapidated,

Run down, an unsightly residue left to mold.

Not a single spirit bothers to look

Beneath your layer of dirt, must, and grime

Or hopes to find a fairytale story of old

Behind your boarded windows and chipped crown mold.

Perhaps you should have taken better care

Of your aging body through these severe years.

But you did not. Though one can’t help but wonder why,

When spotted specks of gold glint hidden, glum and tired.

You’ve left no successors to your once grand empire.

No suburban beings to birth your blood, simply

Retired, it seems. Lost spirit—Or life. And now you sit,

The soul survivor, surrounded in self-pitying demise.

14

Train Burns Lawrence Car ter

I sat in my car with my foot on the break. And I stared. I

stared, and then I retreated backward into my mind while blocking

everything else out, mostly. A reel began to play through my head

like one of those old films on the projector screen. But, instead of

rapid movements up to down, they moved left to right. And as I

watched, short stills became flip books, and then the flip books be-

came short clips of robotic movement. Then the movement became

more fluid and animated, giving life to the characters dancing before

my eyes. The film was moving quickly, and I needed to grasp every

moment of it, before I felt its passing.

The memory came from when I was just a boy. The sounds

crescendoed, and my ear drums rode them in turning fits as they

grew. I tried to yell at the sound, to drown out the noise so that I

could be heard for once. But the sound would only grow. The sound

was repetitive, it would drone and then a thundering note would

blow at the climax of this novel come to life in my head. My neck

twitched for a moment, and I could smell the harsh chemical that

contaminated my skin. The smell took on form and burned holes

into my hands, leaving me with nothing but a weak buzz that more

dropped than lifted me. The smell left, then returned, and then left

and returned again. This smell was being carried by a host that loved

me, but loved his chemical more. I was weak, vulnerable, and barely

able to withstand it. The pain. He gave it to me without giving it to

me himself. The screams, the empty promises, the broken wishes,

the lies. The tears, though sincere, were in vain. And again, and

again, and again, an enduring plague, then a short reprieve. Over

and over, my resolve grew faint. The note sounded again.

I’d been playing with Thomas, when my father stormed into my

room. I knew that he was storming because there was already a

cloud around him, though not a rain cloud. He loved me, but he

loved his chemical more. I asked him what was wrong, and he

15

grabbed my arm to pull my face close to his. He snarled with gritted

teeth and commanded me to clean up my room. As I was against his

face, I could taste the smoke in his breath as he exhaled the word

“room” into my face. He threw me to the floor while my arm began

to swell where he’d grabbed me. After slamming the door, he

stomped through the house and into the kitchen. I heard that repeti-

tive sound again of him hitting the pack on his hand. He yelled that

he would be in my room to check that it was clean in three minutes.

Fear gripped my heart. I scrambled, grabbing my chest with my hand

and coughing from the smoke. He loved me, but he loved his chemi-

cal more. I shoved my tracks away into the bin with my other toys

and shut the lid as he burst through the door. His eyes were horrify-

ing as they loomed over me. I leaned against the wall with a thud

and slid to the floor. Holding my knees to my chest, I peered up at

him as he walked over to the corner of my bed where I had acciden-

tally left one of my toys. He bolted toward me, faster than anything I

had ever seen, and threw me over his shoulder. I pounded on his

back screaming for him to let me go, begging and pleading while my

tears fell to the floor behind him, unnoticed. He was so strong.

With one arm still around my legs, he pulled out the pack and hit it

with his hand again several times. The sound again. He set me in

the closet that I knew so well and lit his match. He loved me, but he

loved his chemical more. My tiny fists fought with the wooden door,

but the doorkeeper was present on the other side. After hours, he

opened the door. My eyes were puffy, swollen from the stress and

the tears. My hands were raw and red from pawing at the door. My

stomach was sore from the violent lift to his strong shoulders. He

told me to put my hands out, but I shook my head. Once again, he

told me to give him my hands. He loved me, but he loved his chemi-

cal more. Taking his freshly lit cigarette in his thumb and forefinger,

he took my right hand in his vice grip, and shoved the coal into my

16

little palm. Pain seared through my body, and I screamed with fresh

tears springing from my eyes. My little hand shook with pain as he

finally released the butt. I looked into his eyes, but he wasn’t look-

ing into mine. He was looking at my other hand, and repeated the

action with his hands shaking and his brow sweating. “I love you,

Son. And this is for your own good.” But he didn’t, and it wasn’t.

Because he loved his chemical more.

The sound repeated again and again. The painful memories,

sweeping through my mind, reminded me of the past that I wanted

to forget altogether. But I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me. The sound

diminished, and the smell faded. The reel was interrupted abruptly

and decisively, and I snapped back into focus. The gates were lifted,

and I removed my foot from the brake and moved on. I moved on

because that was the only thing that I could do. I could hear the

whistle behind me, signaling the climax of the story. I looked at my

hands, only to find what I had been trying to get rid of all my life.

Scars.

17

The Burning Valley Midwest Twenty-Three Nathan Elias

I felt the fire’s rock-steady inertia pulling us along

through smoky clouds overlooking the glass ghost valley.

We rose where rivers intersect at the wrist like vapor

null to the sound of history’s heavy heartbeat.

We burned and crowed in harmony with rusty

road-show record players, rocked forth and back, lost

and high on the frequency of rickshaw radio, got lit

off those soothsayer poets, bohemian angels

whose albino guise danced the Macarena

under pale blue Boricua moonlight and led

our mariachi band to a sky where gravity sang

the violin verses of underwater maestros,

whose bloody feet fled the West Palm wasteland

after Los Angeles, after Philadelphia, after the Black

Swamp to chase down the last hellhounds in waking

madness, in the shadow of tombstone fields

where the writing thousands revived

Darwin and reminded the five-sided figures

to burn inside the church of time, inhale

paraffin breath from spitfire lungs.

All at once they opened their mouths, lit up

the midnight valley of the Midwest muse and cast

lonesome pavonian fireworks down the throat

where the bones and belly still cry for life.

18

Dirt City Sam Fetters

Casino mothers

And six-pack dads

Go to work

In the morning,

And then chase

The evening’s sunset

Out of downtown.

While kids stay home

And play with vegetarian dogs-

Waiting for the television.

Dead bored

On a dead planet.

19

Lights flicker

Ice on the windows

Power boxes explode

And drop from the sky.

Thundersnow.

Month One

Month Two

Welcome to the cold world

And shit city.

Where February lasts

The whole year

And the citizens

Look at the wrecks

And the ruins

With horrified smiles.

20

John Steinbeck (1902-1968) Adam Gel l ings

Ohio needs the Fall

and I wake up

suddenly the siamese mao of

it all

the black cat

doorstep

reminding me to pump

3 bucks

worth of nickels

into the flat tire

of a grand prix -

pack a smokes

under the tulip tree

reminding me

that the United States

needs

- poetry

I'm the President

of Poverty

under the shade

of this here

tulip tree

21

Unsettling

Oak hand crafted

desk maker my own

father was a carpenter

Jesus' father was

a carpenter; now

I am 22

and I've got a desk

made of wood

to lay my things

across;

spread about

junk

22

I've gone to

the art museum

to walk

around and look

for a bit

The sauerkraut

you left was

a treat and

I've marked

today's psalm

in the good

book by

the chair

Take care

of papa and

keep the

windows down

On Wednesday

it rains

Wednesday

23

TGIF Will iam Gutheil

Papa had always seemed

Generally weak in times of crisis.

In this instance he’d been standing

By the kitchen sink, whining

Like a poor, rejected puppy,

Begging my sister not to throw

The empty glass bottle

She’d lifted above her head.

But she had already let go,

And the bottle crashed

Into the wall, just inches off target.

Mama never thought her baby

Could be so violent,

But there she stood, bits of glass

Speckling her right side,

Knowing full well that her daughter

Had every intention

To have struck four inches to the right.

And they started shouting again.

The long, annoyed pleas of my father,

Our yelping mutt, caged in the corner,

The appalled cries of mother,

And my sister’s abusive cursing;

They rose to a volume

Only contended by the commotion

From the television,

Insisting that with Family Life

I can have comprehensive insurance

To ensure the safety of

My American dream.

24

So I took a seat on the sofa,

Waiting for the storm to pass,

And the commercial to end,

To watch a re-run of Home Improvement.

25

1729 Franklin: Magdalena Hirt

Il legit imate Chi ld

when you

left me

in an alley

my limbs were numb

my heavy wool skirt

pulled up

soiled in

street streams

legs exposed

so that

you

could thrust

water sludge

behind my ear

on the bricks

26

Thighs. My

light linen

skirt rests

easy near

my hips

pulled up

to reveal

my thighs.

Thighs

hold gently

a waterfall

of warmth

cascading

and spinning

around

my thighs

Thighs, my

round roads

of dancing

pleasure. My

soles

move

in motion

my thighs.

Thighs control

my ankles

bending

toes extending.

Hold

my thighs

for my thighs

hold me.

Thighs

Inspired by Henri Matisse’s Dancer Resting

27

Toledo

My scarlet sky, layered city. Expose me

in your second floor window over stretching

highways, onramps, off ramps, traffic, your abandoned buildings

looming with broken glass, cardboard doors pounded shut,

never re-enterable next to your silent, calm river

made of dark glass that turns its head consuming coins

that fall to the bottom. I see you here

holding my forearm as you slide your rough,

cracked, dry fingers between my grasp and climax.

“Will you learn to love me?” You smile vulnerably.

The sun disappears darkening your landscape downtown.

“Your my dream home,” I say as my hand spreads ringed fingers

into the stubble of your streets.

28

5AM Joshua Klein

Cool air and cricket sounds

Slip through the wire screens of our windows,

Heavy curtains are half-open,

Letting graceful moon light peer in.

The subtle glow illuminates no color,

Only black and white,

Even then, only a discerning eye can make out form.

But her hair radiates the moon’s rays

More brilliantly then the filament of Edison’s bulb.

Her figure has silent resolve,

But no amount of guesses would bring me closer to her dreams,

after all.

The slope of her back is a beach leading to the sea, sheets advance

and retreat.

If only her skin were not so magnificent,

Like a pearl conch shell, polychromatic,

An infinite depth of color,

Desaturated, now only glistening,

But still the canvas for light all these years,

If I weren’t so mesmerized, then perhaps I could sleep.

A wave breaks at every exhale,

Inhale draws it back, consistent like a clock.

A soothing reminder that time hasn’t stopped.

Traversing the beach with my fingertips,

Every imperfection I find is a landmark,

A secret between two.

The source of mystery and untold stories,

The true beauty.

The western breeze blows from the Pacific,

29

And from lips always red.

Dew settles on my neck.

She is the morning light,

The first thing I see.

30

An Ode to Goodness

Precisely spaced-

Your waltz tempo’d pace,

Each footprint is a masterpiece,

A new element left in the earth with each step.

Splashed with colors that light doesn’t recognize.

Your size isn’t fathomable,

You are a giant that fits in the heart.

Through your sighs the melancholy finds peace.

The Sun is dimmed by your gaze.

No one doubts the Spirit in you,

Innovation is tangled in your hair,

Your dreams flow with the whipping wind,

Sin is the salty sweat of your brow.

In the rhythm of your breath, the ocean matches its time.

Your veins are the schematic for the grand design,

And its been said,

There are fireworks in your head.

31

May I Tell You a Secret? Douglas Lutman

I wont hold you to it--

You can forget if it suits your taste

I prefer a dry throat, a treat I accidentally provide

The empty swallow that gets stuck half way down

The way I sound, raspy as if years of lessons have eroded sharpness

Like river rocks, static-- stoic

and smooth

Choosing words as fingers pick mulberries,

Stained and fragile

Knowing the best-- slight red and tart to taste

The way they fill my mouth and leave bitter--

Rotten teeth--

Dry, and reminding

shh--

I am here

32

A Map Soundtrack John Malich

A map soundtrack to study

over the center console

is a choice of country or rap.

But it could also be rock and

roll with rubber bands to

avoid the fold in highways.

Or it’s a reed instrument

over the plains

blowing a low register tornado.

33

Asleep in the Upper-Peninsula Woods Josh Mooney

I slept

in the wheel-bare trailer

filled with gas lamps and gun racks

by a plank and nails porch

built upon the grasslands

beside deer-chewed orchards.

Far from streetlamps

with waste-light

beige like calcium build

ringing the sky’s rim,

the wolves howled.

They called through trees

without shivering a leaf,

over fields,

without flattening a stalk,

and through the windows

without twisting a sleeping bag.

They were only calling

to one another.

34

Small Quarters

An antler,

above a high school graduation cap,

a knife blade

hanging next to a ruler

and pens,

and a flint fire starter,

a shillelagh

the size of a gavel,

lists of exercises

taped

between doorframes

on the flanks

of shelved books

about gods,

the bible,

sex addicts,

swordsmanship,

Steinbeck everywhere,

Kafka for the giant moles,

Ellison speaking on the low frequencies,

Merwin puffing grey clouds and writing on shade,

and herbal remedies

lean side by side

in a cheap white

two-tier shelf,

and the Canterbury tales

are piled with Achebe

like hoodoos

or plateaus

on a three shelf cross

between a coffee table

and a bookcase

35

the bottom corner mended

with a stretch of duct tape

and hidden

by putting it against the wall

by putting it between two bins

one built into the wall,

one plush and the color of skin

and then piling it with books,

notebooks,

guides from medieval conferences,

and somewhere beneath them,

a first aid kit and a box of fossils;

there’s a machete from the car

is in a synthetic sheath

atop some rope

tied

into highwayman’s hitches

on the bars of my loft,

two good steel knives on top the dresser,

lying with wallets and a cell phone,

and a knife, found, on Huron beach,

made in China, and bent from stabbing it

into a block of cheap pine,

and a bastard sword

of high impact polypropylene

hanging from a guitar hammock

with a sheep’ jawbone from Irish tide pools

tied there too with twine,

all crammed

in too small a space

and never quite

in any order,

and were this room not a closet with two windows,

36

one hung with paperclips

drying organic herbs

for grinding in a mortar and pestle,

you would divide its parts

into a library

an armory

a panic room

a medicine man’s

chemistry lab.

37

Clark Lake Cody Riebe

The small, dilapidated shack

where they once sold corndogs.

Walls of unkempt green grass protect the small path

that snakes around the park.

I step on the cracking cement dock

and see the two faded buoys swaying in the water.

I’m surprised they don’t float away

and I wonder how and if they’re anchored.

To the left there are several aluminum docks.

I try to make out my grandparents’ boat.

To the right is a rusting swing set

next to monkey bars in the shape

of a giant metal snail.

The paint is starting to crack.

Behind me is an adobe cottage.

I wonder who lives there.

The smell of burning charcoal

enters the air as my feet penetrate the water.

Minnows scatter.

A family is grilling burgers.

I break that promise to myself

and long for my childhood.

38

The Girl with the Patent Leather Face

Suppurative soars coat my face.

The doctor calls it persistent nodular acne.

I look in the mirror and feel like Joseph Merrick,

Without the notoriety.

Here’s what to do to keep your head above water

when your mark of Cain is all too evident.

First, contradict yourself.

Be happy that you're a survivor and

think of all the lessons of humility

you've been blessed with.

At the same time hate those

searing pus fields with all that

you can hate with.

Doublethink is important here.

Two projectors shooting into

your brain: one image and one inverted

image, superimposed. If you sway to either

side you'll drown, either in self-loathing

or self-delusion.

Be victim and savior at the same time.

Jesus Christ.

Second, don't exist any more than you

have to. Exist enough so that the wind

can't erase you, but not enough so that

you become something permanent,

like a vague transparency sheet with

spotty marker that put you to

sleep in Geometry class.

Go by unnoticed.

39

If you're not real the dangers aren't either.

Be content being mostly a ghost.

Third, don't waste time worrying

about whether or not you're ugly;

you are.

The mirror is your judge and the

tears: your jury. There's a kind of sad

irony in that you were executed pre-trial.

Ignore it.

The system isn't perfect.

Apparently.

Lastly, don't bother with suicide.

The only thing worse than being ugly

is being a failure.

You're already a living corpse.

Putting the nail in the coffin is pointless.

Keep vaguely existing,

like a half-forgotten memory.

Just don't ask me why.

40

Granada Kevin Risner

The terrace tilts beneath terra cotta icicles

And an Italian’s Spanish guitar

New chords arching over dogs’ barks

And their relays through whitewashed alleys

Smoke levitates like gnats by ears

But the strumming behind the thunder

Smothers the stormy grey cathedrals

And hanging threadbare rugs

Calling me to prayer with a megaphone

Just one more word before I get pulled into paella

Where oysters sizzle and swim back into shells

San Miguel sweat and sweat from table tennis

Volley saffron back and forth and into my mouth

41

istanbul #1

we kick

mosque walls

my raft

tilts against waves

come up for air

in purple smog

i hold a knife

that slices clouds

and the crumbs

sprinkle on uneven paths

i reach

the perfect door

a water glass

pressed against it

to hear what’s inside

42

Ganymede Alaina Schnapp

There’s an androgynous hemophiliac on the bus

He left a seat between us, per decorum, per the secret law

Per os, by way of the mouth

His roaming feet won’t sit still, jiggling against the vibrations like

withdrawal

He makes me think of visceral words: clavicle, crunk, caustic

He makes me think of home, a stage swept clean at the end of the

night.

Dizzy apologies waft off his skin, a pagan angel in this rocking

Church

Teardrops trace puzzles on his sallow cheeks

He has women’s hands, folded – paper cranes or paper airplanes

Flight in stasis – a battle with gravity

He’s headed for the gin joints and dark alleys

A shattered shadowboxer in this lovely cathedral city

And like a tide pulled, he leaves me here alone.

I love him.

43

A Penguin’s Love Dust in Siefer

There once was a robot that went back in time on vacation. While

on vacation she came across a penguin and she fell deeply in love

with him. But the penguin, although he liked her back, knew that

they could never be together because they were so different. They

played, laughed, and sang and many days passed until the penguin

was madly in love with the robot, and she was even more in love

with him. The penguin decided to ask his father if it was okay to

love someone so different. His father said that penguins should love

penguins and never a robot. The penguin was devastated and de-

cided to run away so he wrote the robot a letter saying that his love

wasn’t good enough and she should find some robot that would love

her. The penguin then went very far away and decided that he

would never come back. He would make a new life and never love

again. Six years passed and the penguin got a note saying that his fa-

ther had died. He decided that he would go home and help his

mother, but he was worried that he would see the robot. He knew

that he still loved her and if he saw her he might be tempted to talk

to her. When he got home he took over his father's business and

went out each night after work looking for the robot in all the places

they sang, played, and laughed together. But he could never find the

robot no matter how hard he looked. One day he met a nice pen-

guin girl and they talked and talked and they soon were in love. But

no matter how much he talked to this penguin girl he couldn’t for-

get the robot. Many years passed and the two penguins married and

had penguin babies. When one day his son came to him and asked

if it was okay to love someone who is different.......... The penguin

now old and thoughtful said with a soft smile “Love doesn’t have a

shape, instead like water, it fills the shape its given.”

44

Friends Morrison Wilson

i’m not exhausted

i just hate you guys

45

Kentucky After the Concert

blinking lights in the shapes of stars

above the booth holding the man

who shouted something

and then got embarrassed

bringing his hand to

his mouth

those teenagers are holed up in the corner table

and they aren’t leaving anytime soon

but they are nice to the old guy

and tip their waitress well

this sandwich is sitting in a pool of mayonnaise

take a picture of the pinball machine

someone at the counter wishes you luck

46

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Mission Statement

The Mill is a literary journal publishing poetry and short fiction by

University of Toledo graduate students in an attempt to strengthen

ties and voices in the literary community at the university. It is ed-

ited and produced once per academic semester.

We consider all submissions for publication and the writing contest.

One piece was awarded top honors in this publication. All submis-

sions were evaluated based on established criteria. The Mill editorial

staff made the final decision on the contest winner.

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English Department