The First Boy I Kissed

Jerry Rubin

lived next door.

Does that still count?


He was Protestant.

I was Catholic.

We were a hundred sacraments apart.


The kiss was quick, a dry pinched peck.

I didn’t even have time to close my eyes

like the flawless girls in the Saturday movies


Later when I confessed

to my Catholic classmates

there was an audible gasp.


Startlingly, Mary Beth didn’t say:

You KISSED a boy!

She said, you kissed a PROTESANT


as if I had said

I kissed a blind goat

with leprosy.


Jerry grew up and moved away,

I grew weary of Catholic boys, apostles,

Catechism. Catechism.  Catechism.


Maybe that’s why I married a Hindu.

And the first time I kissed my husband-to-be

it was fierce and long and wet


and I thought

Hare Krishna!

Hare Ram!


Gail Ghai

Gail Ghai is a graduate of the University of Alberta and a Fellow in Writing from the University of Pittsburgh. Her poetry has appeared in literary journals including The Malahat Review, Jama, the Yearbook of American Poetry and The Delhi-London Quarterly. Awards include a Pushcart Prize nomination and a Henry C. Frick scholarship for creative teaching. She is the author of three chapbooks of poetry as well as an art/writing poster entitled, “Painted Words. Ghai works as an ESL instructor for the Pittsburgh Pirates in Bradenton, FL and also serves as the moderator of the Ringling Poets in Sarasota, FL.

Grace Notes

It’s so much work to stay alive

but living has its payoffs

sunset so stunning it burns your eyes

mathematical precision in a seashell

an unexpected kind word

in a foreign city

not that any of these will fix

the human condition

after all there’s a graveyard

beneath everything

but such small grace notes

can lighten the load


Like when you teared up

kissing that girl good-bye

in the Yugoslav train station

all those years ago and the men

nearby wiped their eyes as well

and patted your shoulder

in solidarity—no matter

you shared no language

no lived experience, you

a U.S. vagabond surrounded

by Slovenian workers


The station was shabby, squalid

yet the memory of their kindness

lifts your spirits still



Sally Zakariya

Sally Zakariya’s poetry has appeared in some 75 print and online journals and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her most recent publication is Muslim Wife (Blue Lyra Press, 2019). She is also the author of The Unknowable Mystery of Other People, Personal Astronomy, When You Escape, Insectomania, and Arithmetic and other verses, as well as the editor of a poetry anthology, Joys of the Table. Zakariya blogs at

Time Warp

Circa 1980, back from college on break, I took my 53 year old mother to the midnight Rocky Horror Picture Show in my hometown. In the car she flashed me her lacy bra peeking from her unbuttoned plus size floral tunic, shimmying her bosom and smirking at the look on my face before buttoning up again.

The Channel 7 news team was at the theater, and Mom intoned, mock-voice-over, “Fans of all ages flocked to the contemporary cult classic…” But no one else there looked over 25; the generations didn’t mix it up as much back then. Gray perm and shelf hips notwithstanding—even back in grade school kids always thought she was my grandmother– she was the perfect audience, probably the only one who understood all the allusions. After all, Lily St. Cyr was born way back in 1918.

Neither of us jumped into the aisle to do the Time Warp, but I could tell she wanted to. She had a way of laughing that was like how some people cry—with her whole body. Everyone always smiled when my mother laughed, which was a lot of the time.

As we walked to the car she took umbrage with the critics who dismissed one young Susan Sarandon’s performance.  “Her eyes are very expressive. She’s gonna go places.”

She went on to compare the male characters with guys I liked in high school. The many Brads, the one Frank and two Rockies were obvious. We clashed over Eddie—I said there were no Eddies in my history; she said there were at least three. “I heard Ninja Star Nun-chuks is in jail right now,” she said. “And Skateboard Steve definitely shoplifted you that mood ring. And Pig-Pen…”– who had once left indelible dusty handprints all over my white French cut T-shirt–“…wasn’t he busted for …”

“Why must you remind me?” I was newly engaged, and smug. I thought only, and constantly, about my perfect fiancé, how much in love I was, how perfectly he smoothed over my ruffled past.

“Just trying to keep you humble,” she said.

I scratched my nose—she always made it itch when she annoyed me.

She caught me. “Aha—I see I still have the power.”

I deflected. “Well, what about the criminologist-narrator? I never dated him.” Ha-ha: he was old and irrelevant. As I said it I realized that he, the foil, a disembodied, judgmental scientific explainer, reminded me of someone…my father-in-law-to-be. Then I realized he also reminded me, just the tiniest bit, of my father-in law’s son, my own fiancé.

I held my breath, discreetly dragging my hand across my nose.

She paused. “He was quite the know-it-all,” she finally said.

I suddenly remembered her saying of one of the Eddies, (Skateboard Steve?) that one day I needed to match up with someone (even) smarter than I was. I’d said she’d sounded sexist and she’d said no, her advice was specific to me.

As I exhaled, she added, “How ‘bout them guns on that Rocky?”

And then she laughed and I smiled.


Julie Benesh

Julie Benesh has been published in Tin House Magazine, Bestial Noise: A Tin House Fiction Reader, Crab Orchard Review, Florida Review, Gulf Stream, Berkeley Fiction Review, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Bridge, Green Briar Review, and other places. Her work has earned an Illinois Arts Council Grant and a Pushcart nomination. Julie has an MFA in fiction from Warren Wilson College, lives in Chicago with two cats and a lot of books, and works a day job as a professor and at a school of psychology.

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