An Editor's Note · On the Craft

What characterizes a Mulhern sentence.

Read Mulhern at any length and three habits declare themselves. The first is a willingness to slow down — to let a chipmunk dart across a patio, a blue jay shake water from its wings, a scent of roses reach the nose before the dialogue resumes. The second is a habit of placing the ordinary and the unspeakable in the same paragraph: a teacup poured, a lie confessed; a hand on a child's forehead, a diagnosis of schizophrenia. The third is moral attention — the writer is always listening for what a character cannot yet hear themselves say.

These pages gather a handful of openings and finished poems, with links to the journals where they first appeared. Read them as you would the first pages of a book in a shop. If the sentence holds, the rest is waiting for you on Amazon, in a back issue, or at the local library.

First Pages

From the Fiction

Short Story · An Aiden Glencar Story

Arise and Go Now

A companion piece to Give Them Unquiet Dreams.

I arrived at Rita's house about noon. Her blue eyes widened when she opened the door. She patted the sides of her red hair and smoothed her pleated cotton nightdress, a pattern of honey-bees. She was always donning unusual clothing or changing the color of her hair, which was ash blond a month ago.

"Aiden, I'm a mess. I fell asleep on the couch. Come in." She held a book entitled Audrey Rose.

She saw me looking at the cover. A girl in a red dress stood in front of a grave. The ground was on fire.

"Junk. I hope you're reading better things in school. Let's sit in the backyard. It's such a lovely day."

We walked through the hallway and kitchen to a brick patio covered by a pergola. She led me to a black wrought-iron table. Sunlight glimmered through the red cedar lattice above us, dappling her face. The air smelled grassy and pungent. Cat urine? Then a scent of roses reached my nose.

"Will ya have a cup of tea?" She pulled out a rusted chair.

"Sure."

"Sit here. I'll be back in a jiff."

A blue jay lapped the greenish water of a fluted cement birdbath, then shook its wings, cawed, and flew away. Along one side of the patio, potted plants moved in the breeze; a few swayed in macramé holders — lush ferns, the yellow and green spider plant, the wandering Jew with its purple and green heart-shaped leaves, and others I could not name. Children laughed on the other side of the tall hedge.

"Come grab the door." Rita elbowed the screen door. She held a small tray with a teapot and two cups.

As I hurried towards her, a chipmunk darted in front of me.

"Thank you, Aiden."

When we were seated, she said, "Isn't this peaceful?" She looked around. "Sometimes I sit here from morning until evening, watching the birds lift their wings or listening 'til the crickets sing." She laughed. "That rhymed. I'm a poet." She poured tea into a cup with milk and sugar. "Here you go." Then she poured her own. A small pot of azaleas cast a purple glow under her chin.

"I want to apologize," I said.

"For what?" She sipped and looked at me over her tea.

"Nanna and I lied to you."

"And when did you do that?"

"I don't have leukemia."

"I know that, Aiden," she said matter-of-factly.

The story continues
Read the full story at Impspired

Essay · The Teaching Life

Teaching at Fifty-Six

A nonfiction piece on the classroom, salvation, and synchronicity.

Inspired by the words of Thoreau, Whitman, Emerson, Dickinson, and other patron saints of American literature, I tell my students, in whatever ways I can, they contain multitudes, that nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of their own minds, and the real business of life is to live in the present, find eternity in a moment. We dwell in possibilities, I say, and possibilities are endless. As a teacher of American literature, I want my students to use the literature as a way to make connections and find meaning.

Explore the circumference of your life. Write about your experience. Celebrate yourself! I urge. My students answer, This ain't math, Mr., or say under their breaths, Mr. Mulhern be on crack, He be trippin', or That's so gay. I teach poor inner-city kids, children of immigrants, immigrants themselves, kids who are struggling with many issues that I never dealt with in my Boston Irish Catholic upbringing, but sharing many of my issues as well: insecurity, perplexity, longing, nanosecond cycles of optimism and pessimism, but always, hope eternal. To live is so startling for them, it leaves little time for anything else.

I begin my American Literature course by asking students to answer the questions, Who am I? Why am I like I am? What do I believe is true? They have to write an essay and read it to their peers. Most of them cringe at the thought of writing an essay, especially one that needs to be read aloud. My hope is that they start to see beyond the surface of themselves, their adolescent identities, and begin to know a sacred self deep inside, what Emerson calls the infinitude of the private man.

Literature, as I see it, is the ladder hanging close to the side of the schooner, this assignment is the first rung, and I want my students to get wet. Telling students that they are schooners and that my sincere hope is that they get wet leads to all sorts of exchanges. Fuck you, for example. Mr., I ain't getting wet for nobody, or perhaps the definitive, That's nasty.

My methodology is more precise. I give them a handout with specific, concrete directives, and have them read it first to themselves. Then I or a student reads it aloud, then I paraphrase each point several times, then I am repeatedly interrupted by Sasha, Makeba, Latitha, Tim, or Mark, who asks if she or he can go to the restroom, then I forget what I was in the middle of explaining, then I begin all over again, then somebody in the back says, What the fuck is he saying?, This sucks, I feel sick, or It's too hot in here.

The essay continues — on synchronicity, Langston Hughes, and what teaching saves
Forthcoming in collected nonfiction · Silver Current Press

Four Poems

From the Poetry

Selected work from journals including The Galway Review and Sparks of Calliope — by a poet shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award and nominated for Best of the Net.

Leaves

First published in The Galway Review

That fall day we raked leaves from behind the shed.

Smell of earth and wet decay rose in the cold air.

We could see our breath.

Worms and beetles scattered through a fence.

I saw dirt and thought we had finished.

"Not yet," you said.

The gray sky grew darker and the wind chilled.

When your flashlight showed not a speck of leaf,

You said, "We're done."

Today I look at the wet leaves below.

I kneel and clear your grave.

Again, I smell the earth and feel the biting cold.

The damp leaves shimmer like tears, not many,

that drop on the yellowed grass.

"We're done," I hear you say.

I say a prayer, cross myself, and rise.

I see my breath and imagine I see yours.

I should leave, I think, but not yet.

Honeymoon

First published in Sparks of Calliope

She asks me to put bacitracin on her heel.

"Do you see a small cut?"

I nod and rub the ointment against the crack.

Her feet are calloused and rough.

"That feels good." She sighs.

I see her honeymoon picture on the end table.

My mother and father could be my children.

Waving from the past, bright eyes and lips,

she resembles Elizabeth Taylor in a hat.

Both dressed in fine apparel,

expectant, happy, apprehensive expressions.

"What you looking at?" She glances to the side.

"Oh, that," she says softly. I rub Aveeno into her feet.

Tilting her head back, she closes her eyes and smiles.

The room darkens. The rain outside taps a pane.

I think of how far these feet have walked,

the tenderness at the bottom of her sole.

Kneeling, I'm thankful to ease one hurt.

Her chest rises and falls, and soon she will sleep.

Someday later, I'll hold the photograph

and remember this night —

the rain and the darkening eve.

I will see my mother waving to me.

Maybe I will feel the cut of pain, a sigh of love,

or nothing at all.

Moving Forward

First published in The Galway Review

Mornings I injected insulin into my dog

and made sure she had enough water in her bowl.

To see her in the yard, wobbling as she peed bloody urine, pained me.

Ethel's pain was greater than mine though,

especially the times she collapsed onto the cold tile

or bumped into walls and furniture because of her thick cataracts.

One day she could no longer hold her urine,

so I bought diapers for her, which always managed to fall off.

I began carrying her when she had that look, helping her get quickly to the yard.

My mother said, "Can't you put her to sleep?"

I said, "So when you become incontinent, I should do the same?"

"Guess not," she answered. I'm my mother's healthcare proxy.

Eventually I had to euthanize her, Ethel that is.

As I left the office, the young woman at the desk said, "Sorry for your loss."

I bent over my steering wheel and cried for a long while, then drove out of the lot.

My mother, eighty-two, is losing her sight.

She tells me she depends on audio books and the largest fonts for her texts.

Her body is filled with metal — multiple surgeries on her spine, hips, and leg.

Someday she will die and I'll visit the empty space of her apartment.

I will remember her resolve to move forward when I see the walker beside her chair.

How she listened to me, standing tall, and told me through dim blue eyes, "I love you, sweetheart."

All of the living are broken, inside and out,

and the problems continue to accumulate.

It's how we care for others, show love, and move forward

that helps us become whole again.

Session's End

First published in Sparks of Calliope

One day there is no news.

The anchors stare at empty teleprompters,

Eyes wide and twitching, lips quivering,

they look into the camera.

We change channels.

See black screens or people scrambling on sets,

Passing blank papers and whispering.

We do not hear what they say, and we do not care.

We are too tired to move.

Through the living room windows: trees and sky.

The wind blows and birds fly.

Somewhere snow falls and thunder booms.

But not here. There is no weather.

No drama, conflict, or story.

No wars, crimes, or political crises.

No empty talk. No sound and fury.

In a forest, high on a pine,

a wood thrush sings.

Deep in a dark-water cave,

the Emperor angelfish knocks.

A judge's ruling: session's end.

Someone shuts a door.

In the Journals

The Writing