By Claire Eder

And now, just before we reach our destination,

The inevitable:

You’re standing on the side

Of the road and your instinct’s telling you

The car is slowly bleeding to death.

It will never recover from the drive up.

The steady click chirp click

Of camera shutters, each a needle prick -

Black and blue bruises of silence -

The miles of meditation

Adding up to a momentum almost

To tip it over the edge

Of every winding curve ”“

All of this is too much.

So now begins your mourning.

From now on

You will dress only in colors of the desert -

You will write down everything that comes to mind -

You will find mantras in gift shops

And carve them into the soft red stone

(The ranger will inform you that a couple million

Years will carve them away again).

I’ll wait it out,

Maybe go into the gas station and pick up a donut.

I’m in no hurry to get there

Because, finally, here’s what I think:

We came all this way to look

At the empty space;

Not the rock but what the rock surrounds.

I think we should get back in the car.

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.