Sheri Leseberg and Amanda Miska Vogel

Untitled
By Sheri Leseberg

Painted using Amanda Miska Vogel’s poem (below) as inspiration

Cold Steel Illusion
By Amanda Miska Vogel

I.
I once shot a gun–my dad’s hunting rifle–at ten years old.
The kick knocked me to the ground and I didn’t even hit the
wide, round target, nailed to the base of an oak tree.
A few years later, after my family’s house was broken
into, my dad kept a revolver in his bedside drawer.
I found it while searching for a flashlight, but did not
pick it up, so heavy
it made my heart, just looking at it.

II.
We live by guns…why is it so surprising when we die by them?
says the man on the radio, that callous, honest logic.
How easy it is to purchase that cold steel and the illusion
of safety.  There was violence
long before the TV and movies we blame, blood
in the ground we walk on, generations of violence
that seeped into the dirt,
a steady runoff.

III.
In this world where hate is taught and mastered
like multiplication tables, I wonder
where did I learn to love so much?
This love that catches in my throat
when passing rows of strangers
walking on the street.
We need to teach it first to our children,
this formula for resolving conflicts with the heart,
not the head only.
Memorize this:
a gentle touch, a deep breath, a direct look into eyes
not so different from your own.  A handshake, a home-
made meal, your silence when it’s time to listen, your voice
when it’s time to shout.

——————————————————-

Untitled
By Sheri Leseberg
Inspiration Piece provided to Amanda Miska Vogel

The Guardian
By Amanda Miska Vogel
Response to Sheri Leseberg’s painting (above)

St. Mary’s Cemetery sat on top of Campbell Hill. The Campbell family lived in the worn Cape Cod that bordered the wrought iron fence and had been taking care of the cemetery for generations. Everyone said—and it was true—that the seasons were different on that edge of town. Winter lasted longer, snow covering the ground well into March as though the cemetery was a scene trapped inside of a snow globe on a coffee table, as the rest of the world bustled just outside of the glass, light and warm in the living room.

The far left corner of the lot was shaded by a white birch tree, and in the tree was often perched a raven. Roger Campbell III liked to call him The Guardian, while his two young sons, Pearse and Sean, called him Poe after the author of their favorite poem (which was their little sister Amelia’s least favorite). The raven always appeared to be searching, circling in flight as though he’d lost something but was sure he’d had it just a minute ago and would continue to retrace his steps until he found it—so human. Then he would return to his place on the outstretched birch branch, a stark black figure against the bright white tree bark against the dark gray sky.

Spring finally came to Campbell Hill the day after Easter, mid-April—they’d never seen so many dandelions dotting the yard, as if they’d sprouted in a matter of hours. The sun was bright, but the air still carried a slight chill when the breeze picked up.

When all the snow had finally melted on the grounds, the township ordered that a driveway be paved through the cemetery to the house, in case of emergency, so fire trucks and ambulances could have easier access. The current road was only dirt, and while Roger Campbell had no trouble driving his Ford truck up and down it for years, he figured it was time modernity reached their end of town. The only area available for the path would clear a portion of grass flush with the very first row of headstones, causing them to line the curb like a broken fence, cement to cement. The final product left no room for flowers, no space to kneel and read the names and inscriptions.

Amelia Campbell cried all day when the trucks came to dig and pour the sticky black tar.

“You’re too soft—like your mother,” her father said.

Rather than hurt her, the comparison helped to slow Amelia’s tears. She wanted to be like her mother more than anything. To take care of her family, sing songs in the shower, love the unlovable wherever she met them, plan the garden in early spring so there would be plenty of flowers to go around. But her mother had been thirty-five when she died, and Amelia was only eleven. She didn’t know how to do most of those things, and the ones she did know were never noticed by the rest of her family.

The following day, after the blacktop dried, Pearse and Sean went out and began to bounce a basketball back and forth. Thump. Thump. Amelia could hear them through her bedroom walls. She decided to take out some flowers to put on the opposite sides of the stones that had been paved in. Their families never visited and would probably never know, but Amelia would.
Visitors to the cemetery were few as the Campbell’s had stopped accepting burials three years earlier (except for pre-planned, pre-paid spouses or relatives). Amelia’s mother, Joanna, had been the last one. Her stone was close to the house and was never bare.
The cemetery was like an exclusive club now, and had become a small town tourist attraction. Older boys from school would sneak into the cemetery on hot summer nights, before the sun had even completely set, chasing and trying to scare one another. Amelia’s father never did anything about it.

“But they’re trespassing,” she would say.

“Boys will be boys,” was his response.

In those moments, Amelia desperately missed her mother. Sometimes she’d imagine that the raven was actually her mom watching over them, not a he but a she, an angel disguised as an ugly bird. She worried that if the raven were to ever disappear it would mean her mom had stopped watching and Amelia would be on her own, in a family of boys, on the outskirts of town, where the seasons were slow to change—as though the heavy weight of grief that resided in that place prevented the world from spinning as quickly.

Sometimes, when she was especially frustrated, Amelia would climb the birch and sit on a branch, looking out over the graves, imagining what it must feel like to be God up in heaven staring down at the headstones as though they were buildings covering a little city on earth. It was more fun to imagine a city alive with people than what was really there. Some days, the raven would land a few branches above her and look down too.