http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com Marco Polo Sat, 13 Apr 2013 11:32:28 +0000 http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com en http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Life-by-the-Promenade http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Life-by-the-Promenade Sat, 13 Apr 2013 11:32:28 +0000 Marco Polo 5392828 <img src="http://payload154.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5392828/fifth film video_905.gif" width="900" height="450" width_o="900" height_o="450" src_o="http://payload154.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5392828/fifth film video_o.gif" data-mid="29023408" border="0" align="left"/> Thomas Legald is a multimedia designer who lives in Denmark. In addition to Life by the Promenade, his films include Azzurri - The Hunt for Gold (2010), a documentary about the Italian national soccer team and their preparations to the upcoming World Cup, in South Africa. His work includes graphic animations from 2007 - 2013 for the Danish sports channel, TV 2 SPORT A/S. © Copyright Thomas Legald 2013 Thomas Legald is a multimedia designer who lives in Denmark. In addition to Life by the Promenade, his films include Azzurri - The Hunt for... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Schisms-of-Kukulkan http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Schisms-of-Kukulkan Sun, 07 Apr 2013 12:30:45 +0000 Marco Polo 5353428 <img src="http://payload152.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5353428/FICTION FICTION_905.gif" width="900" height="176" width_o="900" height_o="176" src_o="http://payload152.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5353428/FICTION FICTION_o.gif" data-mid="28801654" border="0" align="left"/> Schisms of Kukulkan —Funny, he doesn't look like I thought he might, she says. —No? —No. —What does he look like? —Bruce Nauman. —Who's that? —The artist who studied Maths and works in sculpture and neon and video. The contemporary artist. His interest is in language. He often plays with it, in a mischievous way. —I don't know him. —Well, then...take my word for it, she says. —All right. I believe you. I've always thought Death would come in the form of a milkman on a bicycle. —Death is not the same. —I know, I'm just... —And so? Does he? —Death? —Yes. —Sometimes. Other times he's Compton in a tweed jacket. —Who's that, she says. I know the name. —The main character in Hemingway's "Snows of Kilimanjaro." She laughs, —Death as the Saviour. Compton is the man who airlifts Harry, right? —In the dream. —Why not the old fisherman in Cuba? —Because the old man fails with the fish. And Death doesn't. —Does he? Does he fail, she says. —I don't know... —You ought to. You can make Death anything you want. —Except go away. She laughs, —You can do that too. It's spherical. —What is? —It's all right. You want to leave your baggage with me? She points down at the floor. It's slightly flooded. They are in an ante-room, just off the main parlor. The walls meet up the ceiling high above them, and are stained by rusty watermarks near the intersection with the beams. —I shouldn't... —You ought to. Leave them here. Then you can go empty-handed. —I shouldn't... —Leave them. Leave your baggage with me. And then say goodbye and go. Since emigrating to the United States from Romania in 1980, Alex M. Pruteanu has worked as a journalist, television news director, freelance writer, and editor. He is the author of "Gears" (Independent Talent Group) and novella "Short Lean Cuts" (self-released). His writing has appeared in NY Arts Magazine, Guernica, PANK, Connotation Press, FRIGG, and many others. Alex lives with his family near Raleigh, North Carolina. Copyright Alex Pruteanu 2013 Schisms of Kukulkan —Funny, he doesn't look like I thought he might, she says. —No? —No. —What does he look like? —Bruce Nauman. —Who's that?... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/In-the-End-We-re-All-Toreros http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/In-the-End-We-re-All-Toreros Sun, 07 Apr 2013 08:24:21 +0000 Marco Polo 5352413 <img src="http://payload152.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5352413/N E W E S S A Y_905.gif" width="900" height="204" width_o="900" height_o="204" src_o="http://payload152.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5352413/N E W E S S A Y_o.gif" data-mid="28797224" border="0" align="left"/> In the End, We’re All Toreros Although it’s only my first bullfight, I’m fairly certain that at no point in the afternoon should the matador be underneath the bull. Tipazo is his name—the bull, that is—and more than a half ton of his muscular, testosterone-laden body is standing on top of the azurely garbed Fermin Spinola. Spinola’s mistimed thrust of his sword has sent a hush over the largest bullring in the world. The woman next to me—sharply dressed and in her early 40s—gasps softly as if even she doesn’t want to let out a sound. Spinola’s entourage has quickly come to his aid, making every attempt to train the bull away from the beaten matador. But he hasn’t gotten up, and now medical attention is scurrying across the umber ring. With Tipazo’s aggression—understandable as it is given the situation—time is of the essence. A group of six or so men scoop up Spinola and rush him off to the side wood. Poor Tipazo has won the proverbial battle only to lose the war. The third matador on the billing, a young, cocky Diego Silveti, steps in to do what Spinola could not. Within minutes, the ominous plaza trumpet flatly calls for death, Silveti jams his sword through the morillo—the hump of muscles above the neck and shoulders—and Tipazo’s bloody carcass is dragged out of the ring behind two horses. Nearly the entire crowd gets to its feet, shuffling up and down the aisles. Apparently, it’s time for a beer. Earlier in the afternoon, the smell of grilled suadero and smoky chorizo had engulfed a side street I was walking through in the shadow of the Plaza de Toros in Mexico City. Impeccably dressed ladies and gentlemen—young and old—socialized, ate, and picked through the bullfighting related novelties piled atop makeshift stores. Scalpers stalked the streets like sharks, hoping to make a few pesos off the inaugural corrida de los toros (bullfight) of the year. Admittedly I was excited as I sat chewing on a taco and thinking about the event that was about to unfold. Mexico City’s plaza may be the biggest of its kind in the world, but it’s not the oldest, a fact that may be lost upon the casual observer. The spartan concrete seats are gray and eroded with fissures that seem more 17th century than the mid-20th century when it was built. Arriving early, I had the stadium more or less to myself save the shhlllt shhllllt shhlllt of cascading ice and clanking glass from men chilling down Coronas and Pacificos in metal tubs. People began to enter and take their seats, and the chatter and excitement grew, culminating with the appearance of colorful picadors, banderillos, and, of course, the toreros. As the teams flitted across the sere ring, manipulating the path of the bull and posing for the crowd, I was shocked by how the movement and pace of it all was not unlike that of a Catholic mass—methodical, predictable, pregnant with expectation, capped with a celebration of death. Even the recitation of “ole”—expressed after accomplished passes of the bull—sounded prayerful at the low registers. Unlike a mass, however, which takes place over the course of five acts, the corrida has only three. Profoundly ritualistic and hypnotic, each is bloodier and neither offers a chance for redemption. After the death of the third or fourth bull, nearly everyone was heading for a beer or to the bathroom, and I looked around wondering if we had all seen the same thing. Had we all not just watched a wild animal bred specifically for aggression and size go one-on-one with a man trained to tame that very aggression and size? Was I the only one affected by seeing an animal killed as part of the show, not in spite of it? The bull’s body, a few minutes ago so beautifully taut and sinewy, was hauled across the earth. A woman in front of me updated her Facebook status from her Blackberry. A 24-year-old Ernest Hemingway wrote that the corrida de toros was a “very great tragedy. The tragedy is the death of the bull.... And it symbolizes the struggle between man and the beasts.” But it’s not, and it doesn’t. At least not really. As I sat in the ring and watched this peculiar ceremony unfold, his ideas seemed hopelessly naive. The real tragedy instead is in ourselves. Whether we like it or not, the fight between the toro and the torero is little more than a symbolic afternoon where at center stage is humanity’s fetish with control, our inscrutable conceit, and our utter cruelty. Would that it were the tally of the bulls our only proof of these. Instead, humanity’s track record is far more ruthless. The corrida, then, isn’t inhumane; it’s precisely human. And here’s the rub: the corrida could go away completely—disappear as it has done in Catalonia to the delight of millions there and around the world—and yet it wouldn’t change humanity for the better. It would simply remove a mirror from our cluttered wall. The last torero of the evening failed to take command of his bull. He was rewarded with the verbal disgust of nearly everyone in the stadium, who, one by one, began tossing their foam seats into the ring and filing out of the plaza before the bull was down. Through the fickleness of the crowd and rain of blood red cushions piling up on the dirt, I watched the deaths of two men: one who had been marked from birth to die in the ring and the other who would leave the plaza wrapped in a red mantle of dejection. Outside the ring, the cool night was deep black. The metro station still about 15 minutes away, I hailed a cab; 15 minutes at night in that city feels like 30. Leaning into the passenger window, I explained to the driver that I wanted to go to the nearest station on Line 8. I didn’t care which one. “No es importante,” I said. Hearing my awkward Spanish and seeing my pale skin, he wanted three times the normal fare. I waved him off and began walking. An American ex-pat by happenstance, Michael Ward has spent much of the last few years in Germany. But he makes it to Latin America whenever he can. His work has been featured in Américas In the End, We’re All Toreros Although it’s only my first bullfight, I’m fairly certain that at no point in the afternoon should the matador be... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/In-Search-of-a-Career http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/In-Search-of-a-Career Sat, 06 Apr 2013 12:59:12 +0000 Marco Polo 5326045 <img src="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326045/POETRY_905.gif" width="900" height="236" width_o="900" height_o="236" src_o="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326045/POETRY_o.gif" data-mid="28654949" border="0" align="left"/> In Search of a Career Rudderless in my teens Asked to write my aim in life. Sometimes I wrote to be a Doctor Sometimes to be a Writer Sometimes to be a Chartered Accountant And so on simply by memorising the books. In those days There was no aptitude test In schools and colleges. Is aptitude test scientific To a student for choosing a career Unknown by me so far. Throughout my youth I was adrift. At last, tried to a Chartered Accountant But being incompetent in numerate And left it. In the finale of my youth I realise, I have an inclination Towards English literature Especially writing English poetry Throughout my life. So decided to be a poet In my forties. Ashis Ghosh © Copyright Ashis Ghosh 2013 In Search of a Career Rudderless in my teens Asked to write my aim in life. Sometimes I wrote to... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Visiting-Rupnaraon-River http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Visiting-Rupnaraon-River Sat, 06 Apr 2013 12:59:10 +0000 Marco Polo 5326074 <img src="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326074/POETRY_905.gif" width="900" height="236" width_o="900" height_o="236" src_o="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326074/POETRY_o.gif" data-mid="28655077" border="0" align="left"/> Visiting Rupnaraon River Just announced on TV The Bengali cinema named “Modhumoy’’ To be telecast on coming Sunday. My memory flashes That day of my youth When I along with my friends Visited Rupnaraon river. Modhumoy–a novella by Sunil Ganguly It turned into film. Modhumoy, the hero of the film Visited Rupnaraon river Along with his girlfriend. When he recited Robindronath Tagore’s poem ’At the Bank of Rupnaraon’’ I became exuberant by hearing his recitation In the film. Thereafter, I read the poem and felt A yearning to visit the river. Visiting the river I imbibed its scenic beauty. While I recited the poem At the bank of the river I felt an eagerness To come in touch with a young girl. Ashis Ghosh © Copyright Ashis Ghosh 2013 Visiting Rupnaraon River Just announced on TV The Bengali cinema named “Modhumoy’’ To be telecast on coming Sunday. My memory flashes That day of my... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Spring-The-Moment http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Spring-The-Moment Sat, 06 Apr 2013 12:59:09 +0000 Marco Polo 5332735 <img src="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5332735/N E W E S S A Y_905.gif" width="900" height="204" width_o="900" height_o="204" src_o="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5332735/N E W E S S A Y_o.gif" data-mid="28692464" border="0" align="left"/> Spring: The Moment Before It Begins to Hurt I am six years older than my brother Andrew and sometimes I think he has the right idea. When someone only has ten words, which are only used when intensely motivated, it makes you realize how many absolutely pointless things you say every day. He may be more like me than anyone else in my family, which is funny, because I can’t stop talking and he never really started. If your vocabulary consisted of only ten words, what words would you choose? And when would you choose to use them? Amanda Choutka is from Collegeville, Pennsylvania and now lives in Washington, D.C. She holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from American University and also teaches in American University's College Writing Program. She is working on a collection of nonfiction essays about growing up with a brother who has severe autism, epilepsy, and is nonverbal. © Copyright Amanda Choutka 2013 Spring: The Moment Before It Begins to Hurt I am six years older than my brother Andrew and sometimes I think he has the right idea. When someone only has ten... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/The-Wedding-Picture http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/The-Wedding-Picture Sat, 06 Apr 2013 12:59:07 +0000 Marco Polo 5332886 <img src="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5332886/N E W E S S A Y_905.gif" width="900" height="204" width_o="900" height_o="204" src_o="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5332886/N E W E S S A Y_o.gif" data-mid="28693059" border="0" align="left"/> The Wedding Picture All I have of my parents’ history before my birth is a black and white photograph. It shows an attractive young couple sitting on the low, stone wall that rings my hometown’s most famous landmark, the Tower of Hercules. The first thing one notices is my mother. Her left profile to the camera, she smiles happily while leaning back into my father’s encircling arms. In what it is clearly night time, her face emits a soft but bright glow in response to the powerful flash of the camera. Two white feather ornaments, much like two white doves surprised by an early nightfall, repose on her dark hair, accentuating the black lace of her dress. My father, pale and handsome, presents his full face to the photographer. His black hair is slicked back and his eyes shine in the chiaroscuro night. The young couple looks like they have agreed to stop briefly, as a lark, to pose for a friend’s camera in front of the legendary lighthouse, before making their way to a fashionable nightclub. The last thing anyone would guess is that this is a wedding picture. The unusual location, time of day and attire might seem an odd choice for such an event. But not if one knows what is hiding under my mother’s dress. Because the young woman in the photograph is already pregnant with me. Like many Catholic women of her generation, she tried to abort me by illicit means. To no avail she plunged her soft young body into almost boiling water, ingested vile potions and underwent barbaric procedures in the hopes of dislodging me. All this and more she told me one cold Swiss afternoon after watching an old Shirley Temple musical on TV that brought back her old dreams of becoming a dancer. This was the first time she had directly indicted my birth as the main culprit for her disappointing life, though I was used to being summoned to her room on many cold and dark Sunday afternoons when, sipping tea, my mother would recite the long tale of her losses and missed opportunities while my brother and sisters watched TV. This particular afternoon was different in that it was not a Sunday and that my mother and I were the ones sitting in the living room watching TV. From time to time, my mother would take a day off during the week to rest while my siblings and I were all at school. On days when she felt particularly blue, she would make me stay home from school to keep her company. This day must have been a particularly bad one for her, because she sat on the couch, tightly wrapped in her thick white bathrobe, which she only wore when she was sick. The soft scarf around her neck impregnated with the Vicks Vaporub smell that signaled sickness in our household was missing, however. The mixed messages sent by the presence of the bathrobe and the absence of the scarf denied me of the familiar cues that usually helped me handle the situation. One thing I knew for certain was that the two possible scenarios of our regular mother-daughter afternoons, going shopping or me being sent to buy us pastries, were out for that day. Puzzled by this new turn of events, I decided to follow my mother’s lead and sat quietly until the movie ended, all the while wondering what this new behavior would bring. Finally, my mother sighed and rose slowly to turn off the TV, then walked over to the window on her left, away from me. After a few minutes of looking out into the street, she came back to the leather couch, sat down, and reached for a long cigarette and her Dunhill gold lighter. The small live flame briefly illuminated her short blond hair and the green specks in her golden eyes, a fragile yet vibrant echo of the photographer’s flash all those years ago. The look she gave me then was hard to categorize for my twelve year-old self. This was an occasion where my precociousness and maturity failed me. Not even the long dozen years of training in learning to read the changing moods of my mother prepared me for this. What I could tell though, is that it probably belonged with the looks she gave me when it was evident I was guilty of some offense that was only unclear to me. At first, my mother seemed happy as she talked about Shirley Temple and her dancing, telling me how she too used to dance, in her father’s bar. Her eyes lit up as she recounted how he would lift her up on the center table and how all the patrons would gather round to watch her dance. When she paused to allow for a small bitter smile, before taking a deep drag from her cigarette, her eyes seemed spent. She soon resumed her childhood recollections, the tapping of her cigarette in the granite ashtray that adorned our low coffee table punctuating what soon became a soft recitation of old grievances against all of her family. This was familiar territory for me. However, instead of following the usual trajectory that focused primarily on my father, who usually had the starring role of the greatest villain, this time the main protagonist was me. The theme of this new litany was the life of immigrant she now had to endure because I insisted on being born in spite of all her efforts; thus tying her to my father forever, a man who also did not want me and resented me just as deeply for resisting their combined efforts to erase me. Because at that time, they both still had dreams of a more glamorous life. My mother’s monologue did not end until, overcome with the weight of having ruined my mother’s life and taking advantage of her lighting a new cigarette, I offered to make chamomile tea. She benevolently accepted my feeble attempt to make amends for ruining her life with a nod of her head. By the time I got back to the living room, my mother was standing by the window, the smoky halo from her freshly lit cigarette slowly fading as I watched her straight back slowly sway from side to side to the voice of Carlos Gardel, her favorite Argentinian crooner. The young man sitting behind my mother in the picture with his arms around her waist also felt trapped into marriage by my impending birth. Not only because he was already involved with a woman when my mother came into his life, but because, as he made it very clear to me on a number of occasions, he was not convinced that I was his. According to my father, my mother had been seeing another man while dating him. He suspected an Argentinian to be my progenitor, just as later he would be convinced that my brother was conceived during my mother’s short stint as a nanny in England. The circumstances of my parents’ meeting is in itself, if not unbelievable, at least worthy to be the script for a soap opera. For reasons that I am not clear on, but that I suspect had something to do with the fact that my mother was a precocious child and my grandmother remarried quickly after the death of my grandfather, my mother entered a convent when she was eighteen. All she ever told me about it later was that she was happy at that convent and that she had found peace there. She often cursed the day she left it. According to my mother, she left the convent after four years because my grandmother had had an operation and needed her daughter to take care of her. The nuns didn’t like to see my mother, who by now had taken her vows, leave the convent. However, the fact that my grandmother required around the clock care that only her daughter could provide at an affordable rate trumped their protestations, and my mother left the convent to be by her mother’s side with the understanding that she would return when her mother no longer needed her. As fate would have it, my grandmother had a lodger: a young, handsome lodger who soon became interested in the young nun. Needless to say they became involved to the point that it was no longer possible for my mother to return to the convent. Whether they married because of love, necessity, or both, I am not sure, but the fact is that my father was already involved with the woman who had to come to help my grandmother until my mother’s arrival. Once married, my mother insisted that my father break off that relationship, to no avail. This precipitated a series of arguments, beatings and scandals. My mother did the arguing, my father did the beating and the neighbors took care of the scandal. In the picture, however, the young couple is captured at a moment of truce, a moment still holding possibilities. The young man’s face is tranquil and his arms seem capable and protective around his beloved, while the young woman’s eyes are soft and bright as she reclines comfortably against him. I stare and stare at that picture, thinking of how things might have been different, if only my mother had worn white that day. Eva Roa White was born in A Coruña, Spain and raised in Lausanne, Switzerland. She has lived in several countries including Saudi Arabia. She teaches English at Indiana University Kokomo. She is at work on her memoir, Back to Galicia: The Immigrants’ Daughter and has been published in Page 47 Online Anthology, Transnational Literature, disClosure, and Natural Bridge. © Copyright Eva Roa White 2013 The Wedding Picture All I have of my parents’ history before my birth is a black and white photograph. It shows an attractive young couple sitting on the... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Summer-Town http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Summer-Town Sat, 06 Apr 2013 12:59:06 +0000 Marco Polo 5333858 <img src="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5333858/FICTION FICTION_905.gif" width="900" height="176" width_o="900" height_o="176" src_o="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5333858/FICTION FICTION_o.gif" data-mid="28697189" border="0" align="left"/> Summer Town My street? Strip of yellow lawns, oil-stained driveways, For Sale signs. A girl without eyes stares out the neighboring window. Asphalt shatters in the cul-de-sac. Women push strollers past a popped beach ball skinning the gutter blue. I’m knotted in apron frosting a cake. The room for entertaining fills with strangers. Most seem older. I recall photo albums stacked in the garage beside the bag of charcoal. When I was young I was way above average. Grandpa toasts—wine glasses rise. Who are these people? Outside, sun scorches the drive. Kirby Wright was a Visiting Fellow at the 2009 International Writers Conference in Hong Kong, where he represented the Pacific Rim region of Hawaii. He was also a Visiting Writer at the 2010 Martha’s Vineyard Residency in Edgartown, Mass., and the 2011 Artist in Residence at Milkwood International, Czech Republic. He is the author of the companion novels Punahou Blues and Moloka’i Nui Ahina, both set in the islands. © Copyright Kirby Wright 2013 Summer Town My street? Strip of yellow lawns, oil-stained driveways, For Sale signs. A girl without eyes stares out the neighboring window. Asphalt... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Use http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Use Sat, 06 Apr 2013 12:59:04 +0000 Marco Polo 5326339 <img src="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326339/POETRY_905.gif" width="900" height="236" width_o="900" height_o="236" src_o="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326339/POETRY_o.gif" data-mid="28656527" border="0" align="left"/> <img src="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326339/Use.gif" width="650" height="886" width_o="650" height_o="886" src_o="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326339/Use_o.gif" data-mid="28656534" border="0" align="left"/> John Mckernan, who grew up in Omaha, Nebraska in the middle of the USA, is now retired after teaching 41 years at Marshall University. He lives—mostly—in West Virginia where he edits ABZ Press. His most recent book is a selected poems Resurrection of the Dust. He has published poems in The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, The New Yorker, Virginia Quarterly Review, The Journal, Antioch Review, Guernica, Field, and many other magazines. © Copyright John Mckernan 2013 John Mckernan, who grew up in Omaha, Nebraska in the middle of the USA, is now retired after teaching 41 years at Marshall University. He lives—mostly—in... http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/Slow-Light http://www.marcopoloartsmag.com/following/marcopoloartsmag.com/Slow-Light Sat, 06 Apr 2013 12:59:00 +0000 Marco Polo 5326141 <img src="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326141/POETRY_905.gif" width="900" height="236" width_o="900" height_o="236" src_o="http://payload151.cargocollective.com/1/3/120634/5326141/POETRY_o.gif" data-mid="28655448" border="0" align="left"/> Slow Light Summer sunset. Her sleeping body bends the grass. Bare feet have forgotten the cast-off sandals. No one can follow where she drifts. At last, the world is private, hers. The words she hears invent a shift from tedium toward longed-for faces. A city’s towers create sky-holes. Sad songs through stone walls, too ancient, too distant. Closer, she feels the warmth. Is it a blanket or has the sun remembered? Peggy Aylsworth is a 91 year old retired psychotherapist living in Santa Monica, CA. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals throughout the U.S. and abroad, including Beloit Poetry Journal, Yuan Yang (HongKong), Poetry Salzburg Review. Her work was nominated for the 2012 Pushcart Prize. © Copyright Peggy Aylsworth 2013 Slow Light Summer sunset. Her sleeping body bends the grass. Bare feet have forgotten the cast-off sandals. No one can follow where she drifts. At last,...