By Amelia Liang

 Watching protesters on fifth and yamhill

on the good side of the river (not tracks)

I was struck by the unity of the crowd so earnest in the sun, chanting,

holding signs with a grip more determined than that of a prostitute

with a limp dick in her hand and rent to pay.

And I was brought back to the first political party

I was ever coerced into joining at age eight

when Samantha Ward, blonde, tiny and mean

captain of the kickball team, chose me to be on team red.

I remember being grateful for not being picked last

as I skipped over to the right side of the gym

(and it was, I was assured, the RIGHT side of the gym).

That’s where it all started.

So here I was again, on fifth and yamhill doing the same thing

except this time it was team blue and there was yelling and clever slogans and spliffs and thrill seekers and earnest dread-locked youth with their predictable A in a circle

not A for antelope or aardvark A FOR ANARCHY!

and their As were in red, even though they erred on team blue

if they had to and I know a good portion of them were hoping to get arrested

and there was a good amount of contempt

for those who didn’t know that affluence was a sin but who knew maybe we could save them from their happiness of golden crosses resting between virginal breasts and we were all there

And there were bloody pictures of dead babies

and pictures of dead grown-ups and pictures of dead animals

and pictures of dead soldiers and lots and lots of smoke

and the police formed a line along a street and their horses were shitting these wonderful pungent mounds all over the brick and that was funny but yes we were all there

And I’m sure the communal sense of joy and euphoria was not due

to the fact that we were making headway for the CAUSE because let’s call a spade a spade we weren’t but because everyone was thinking

or at least realized in some way that in ten twenty thirty forty

fifty sixty seventy eighty years

they would be in some stream-lined hospital dying

and even if they died alone childless loveless real-lifeless

they could think back to this present moment  when they were part of something bigger than themselves and say to themselves I did something I was there yes we were all there

And we were all striving for this purity not racial

DEFINITELY not racial

but this purity in the sense that if this were a perfect world

we’d be able to stand around in a circle and hold hands

because when you’re holding hands you can’t make a fist

and there was a lot of really earnest talk about the right way to love

we’d gotten it right now if only the rest of the world could clue in

we’d be living in a perfect society

and no woman would shave her legs

and yeah there was a lot of that kind of sentiment going around

in some form or another and we’d like to believe

that we were all on the same page that there was absolutely

no variation yes we were all there

we were all there

the lovers the haters the love to haters,

so close

together

as no two people should be,

thousands (or hundreds)

withnospaceatall

and enough energy to bomb Hiroshima

if you split us apart.

Amelia Liang is a Junior English Creative Writing major at Kalamazoo College.  She is currently studying abroad in Dakar, Senegal.

By Amelia Liang

OSAMA BIN LADEN AND HITLER CLONE GAY LOVERS!

I read on a newspaper headline while in line with my milk and kitty litter

National Enquirer, the Star, I forget which one.

Badly edited photos, with neck lines that don’t meet with shoulders,

Showing der Fuehrer and Mr. Towel head himself holding hands.

That’s a nice idea.

I can imagine them both, freed from facial hair,

Clean-shaven and new, like babies.

Hitler opens his eyes, sees the world for the first time since Berlin in flames.

Osama is attentive, intent on Hitler’s face,

So lined and tired, much like his own.

After an initial stare, shy, tentative and heart-wrenching (both know),

Where brown eyes meet blue

A spark, an understanding, perhaps?

For their first rendez-vous, Osama organizes a picnic in the park,

Al-Kabsa for himself, Tafelspitz and Kaiserschmarrn for his companion.

They eat awkwardly, both chewing politely with their mouths closed.

The conversation is awkward at first.

The sun leaks in through the foliage. Birds fly. Caterpillars crawl.

Adolf looks at a potato bug

and remembers how he used to poke them so they’d roll up,

defending their precious insides.

Earlier. When they were all younger.

The second date and it’s Adolf’s turn.

a walk through Parisian streets.

He wants Osama to see the city of lights that he loves.

Atop the Arc de Triomphe,

they look on the city,

grasping the dirty railing,

side by side.

Their hands, on the dirty railing

touch

Osama thinks to take his hand away,

but doesn’t.

A breeze ruffles Adolf’s hair, and Osama thinks of flags unfurling.

They retreat to a quiet café in an alleyway off the Champs Elysees.

American tourists abound, loud and drunk in the streets,

but Osama and Adolf don’t seem to mind.

Osama speaks of the beauty of his home, teaches Adolf a few Arabic words.

And then in the ensuing silence, dares to touch Adolf’s hand.

He looks into his companion’s face, sees no reproach

And

Continues to hold the warm, soft hand.

They continue to hold hands in dark, secretive places,

movie theaters, subway stops, park benches at night.

Nothing more.

just intertwined fingers.

They both talk of unfulfilled ambitions of color and canvas and books and a quiet life in the country. With a garden. And a dog, maybe.

Before the sixth separation

(they are taking things slowly, they don’t want to ruin what they’ve built)

They gently touch lips, and then their tongues greet each other.

Hello, their tongues seem to be saying, there you are. It’s been a while.

Nervous courage is finally flying high,

In the one room studio Adolf rents out by the month.

They unclothe each other as gently and with as much ease

as two children peeling each others’ oranges.

And give themselves to one another with that grace

Of a child offering a piece of fresh fruit to a friend.

In the middle of the night, Adolf needs a glass of water.

Osama wakes up as Adolf rolls out of bed, sleepy-eyed, and

apprehensive,

fearful

for

he has made a sacrifice,

given

a part of himself.

Adolf returns, glass of water in hand, hesitates in the doorway,

silhouetted by the light of the hall,           

and all Osama’s fears are assuaged.

Adolf climbs back into bed and they both fall asleep,

Laying next to each other like proverbial spoons, crescent moons, apple slices,

lovers.