The Adirondack Review

If therapy seeks perfection through duality, and Buddhism celebrates imperfect oneness and unity, then normalcy must operate in threes. A chromosomal mutation spawns three selves, one for each time conspiracy. Morning is nude, cradled in a chalky monster swivel. After two thousand years, their cuddling has finally managed a seated position. She can turn her whole one-third body to look at you, but in her periphery’s the zoo (who’s your friend?). A blue campus emergency call pole sticks out of the landscape like a whale. We go whale watching, but she goes into the whale, where sunshine and spit make rainbows. We have tried to soothe her by hanging a corn kernel disco ball emitting heat and light. But mostly, she’s fading like an old dog. Afternoon is just a snapshot of a different day. She makes to-do lists that grow into a heavy tail she drags around like a bridal veil. Her birthday is a funeral for all she has not yet accomplished. Night has wings and staircase legs. Coffee, the racecar, has since left her peachy bloodstream. Flowers grow out of pretty thoughts: a sunset on the horizon propelled by eyelashes that lift clouds. Archeologists dig up a fossilized fourth self at a rundown 7-11, where a sleepwalker arranges derelicts for a photo opportunity. The orgy kicks up Cheeto dust off white makeshift bleachers.

American Triptych

JEAN PROKOTT

& DEAN RADER

& CHRIS HAVEN

Something Else

NO LAND

& ERIKA HODGES

Four Poems

REBECCA HART OLANDER

& ELIZABETH PAUL

Two Poems

MARIE CONLAN KRIETER