The Bookends Review

Last week, I went to the supermarket and saw
her eyes etched into the tomatoes.
My mother whispered,
she’s pretty if that’s your type,
but everything beautiful eventually turns to dust
Like wilting lettuce.
and I think about the time I told my husband
to get red onions and he came back with white,
as though color were only a suggestion,
as though wanting could be mistranslated.

– Amber Moss… ...continue reading

After the toil of the hot day
from dawn till evening,
in the ritual fasting of the holy month,
as the weary afternoon withers,
like a light evening shower
You come to me, Aadila.
Like breathing, the holy breaking
of fast at sundown after the evening prayers.
You come to me as the sweet
soul-nourishing food.

O like milk and dates,
and the desert’s choicest fruit,
You fill me with love, Aadila,
You fill me with the sweetness of a prayer.

– Aadila Yasmin M & Ananthan K P

Note: This piece was previously published as “Aadila at Sundown” by Rowayat.… ...continue reading

“Wen’s father… was hit by a car,” Sheng’s voice came through the phone, taut like a stretched wire. “He’s dead.”

Yao got the call close to eleven at night. He’d just returned that afternoon to his home in a small town in south China. His son, Ming, had broken his arm playing basketball, and Yao had come to check on him. But before he could catch his breath, something had happened back in the village.

“I just went to the scene with Wen,” Sheng’s voice was faster than usual, breath ragged between words. “It happened less than a hundred meters from the village entrance. Someone hit him and fled. After that, cars kept passing… too dark to see. His body was crushed beyond recognition. What do we do?”… ...continue reading

After decades of coaching, mentoring, and quietly shaping the lives of hundreds of student-athletes, Terry Moss wasn’t one to seek the spotlight. But when Placer High School inducted him into its Hall of Fame, even he couldn’t avoid a bit of celebration. The award was stunning—a towering crystal obelisk, nearly a foot tall, precision-cut and laser-etched with his name, the years he served, and the words:

“For a Legacy that Endures.”

It sparkled under the gymnasium lights like a prism, sending tiny rainbows across the polished hardwood floor. When he accepted it, Terry said only a few words—gracious, humble as always—before giving the crowd his signature half-smile and a quiet, heartfelt “thank you.”

Back home, he set the crystal award on the corner of his oak desk, right in the front room near the big south-facing window.… ...continue reading

On vellum fair his feather travels, back and
Forth crocheting dots, and lines and forms, dancing
Laces full of mysteries.

And from the scratch of the tip upon the piece
Of animal skin, coasts, mountains and pikes
Came to rise. Here and  there a rough display of places
And lands came to life.

There’s a river past this hill and a forest
At its top. A town merchant teems with streets,
Roads, strongholds, oceans, an isle adrift.

Bedrunk with ink the map gets filled in as
The candlewax in small drops fall, ‘till
Darkened regions get a trail to lead in.

Knotting threads of a genesis he strives to braid
For storytellers, so raconteurs in bold black lines
Can tell enchanters and kings where they’ll lie.… ...continue reading

1. You do not exist yet, and my life is not complete.

3. You’re six months old, cheeks rounder than apples, and I reach out to touch you, The Creation of Adam. I prayed for you in the delivery room. Thanks for returning my calls.

5. We’re dancing on two single mattresses in your living room. The end credits to a Mary-Kate and Ashley movie loop ceaselessly. I don’t even know if you like this movie. We watch it every time I come over.

8. We’re changing in your bedroom after playing lions and my eyes wander— catch. You’ve been looping in my head like Mary-Kate and Ashley have ever since. I want my eyes to stop being mine. I recognize this feeling as shame.… ...continue reading

The corridor outside Señor Gil’s office was still and airless, as if even the building was holding its breath. Sunlight stretched across the tiled floor in pale bands. From down the hall, the faint clatter of cutlery echoed from the canteen, accompanied by a burst of laughter and the metallic slam of a tray against the counter.

Rivera stood beside a row of faded blue chairs – las sillas de la muerte, as the students called them. The death chairs. It was where they sat waiting – after fights, after failures – in that heavy silence that always lingered before a meeting with the Headmaster. Rivera didn’t sit.

His arms were folded, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the patch of floor where the light stopped.… ...continue reading