Episode 04: The One With Friends

In this episode we read three poems from Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano’s poetry. Though they were originally submitted for an unthemed issue, they felt more suited to our Locals theme, one of two themes for Print 8. We expected reading submissions for Locals to expand our horizons, to help us to see different pockets of the world in a new way, but these poems helped us appreciate the every-day right in our backyard of Philadelphia.   Welcome to Episode 4 of the PBQ’s Slushpile. We take more time than other editorial boards, but we stand behind our methodology, so much so that we’re going to share our process with you through this podcast. Welcome to the editorial table. In this episode we read three poems from Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano’s poetry. Though they were originally submitted for an unthemed issue, they felt more suited to our Locals theme, one of two themes for Print 8. We expected reading submissions for Locals to expand our horizons, to help us to see different pockets of the world in a new way, but these poems helped us appreciate the every-day right in our backyard of Philadelphia. Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano is a poet, professor, and co-editor of the American Review. She is the author of Slamming Open the Door (Alice James Books, 2009), which was the 2008 Beatrice Hawley Award winner, and also received a positive, full-page review in The New York Times, while Library Journal praised it as "A stunning first book." We were honored to read “30th Street Station,” “The Pool,” and “Jerzee’s Bar.” Reveal: Many of our editorial staff know Kathy well, and in fact, love her. We did what we always do when reading work of those we know; simply tried to remain as objective as possible; and made sure there were people at the editorial table who do not have a personal connection. These poems made us laugh and made our hearts hurt a bit. They gracefully walk the line between the specific and the universal. And now for one of our occasional segments: “Something random I saw in a literary magazine this week.” This week, I visited Carve magazine’s site. It’s run out of Texas, publishes only fiction, and derives its name and ideology from Raymond Carver. On the submit page, they make an offer—if you become a subscriber at the time of submission, they promise to get you a response on your work faster, within two weeks. This flipped me out a bit and I didn’t even have time to process and think about what that does to the editor/author relationship, what it means, and then, I looked at Cleaver magazine (I guess I was on a cutlery theme) and they have this super complicated process----their free submissions are currently closed, but if you pay them $5 you could still submit now. PLUS: In all genres, a voluntary $10.00 "tip-jar" fee will guarantee an expedited answer within two weeks.For fiction, flash, and nonfiction, a voluntary $25.00 "tip-jar" donation, which guarantees a two-week expedited answer plus a detailed personal response from one of our chief editors. We are not able to offer critiques for poetry at this time.   So---crazy genius or mercenary? This is a “thing?” Listen to what we had to say, but chime in on our Facebook page event, Episode 4. Sign up for our email list if you’re in the area and even if you’re not! Follow us on Twitter @PaintedBrideQ and Instagram @paintedbridequarterly. Read on! -KVM   Present at the Editorial Table: SPECIAL GUEST: Major Jackson Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Jason Schneiderman Miriam Haier Isabella Fidanza   Production Engineer: Joe Zang   PBQ Box Score: 2=1 ------------------------------   Kathleen Sheeder Bonnano 30th Street Station Sweet old man in a tweed cap soft shoes, soft brown skin, says, Do you need a cab?   Yes I say and my heart is laughing; this is how I get sometimes. You look like my second grade teacher Mrs. Richmond, I always loved Mrs. Richmond, he says.   He ushers me to a silver Lexus. This is not a cab. This is a bait and switch. Behind the wheel, the driver, 300 pounds of muscle arms like hams   a diamond ring on each pinky a diamond in each earlobe a red baseball cap backward. I think a piece of his ear is missing. I think he has a tattoo on his face. Our eyes meet in the rear view mirror   Clang, clang, goes my danger meter Don’t get in the car! says everyone. So…I get in the car.   By 45th and Locust, turns out his name is Steve. Turns out he buried his younger sister this year and his mom, the year before. She was way too easy on his brother with cerebral palsy— 51 years old and doesn’t like to get out of bed!   I read him a poem about my daughter, from my book. And then he wants to remember my name, and gets out a tiny pencil to write it down.   The Pool My fifteen-year old son, adopted from Chile, pedals his bike back from the pool, says some boys just called him a Spic, and my brain explodes— Ping, ping, says my brain. Wait! says Louey.   I get in the car, gun the gas pedal, stomp past two teenage lifeguards at the gate, on my way to the deep end.   Did you call my son a Name? I call across the water to two skinny white boys no older than twelve, their goose-pimpled arms hugging their concave chests.   They nod. Any minute they might cry and their their mothers might come over. Listen, you! Words hurt! I am yelling, Don’t ever say that word again, do you understand? Or I'll come back here and beat the shit out of you, do you understand? Open-mouthed, they nod. Maybe I didn't make that threat aloud. But we all heard it.   At home, Louey says he was holding their heads underwater for fun, which is why they got mad in the first place.   Jerzee’s Bar I love my rum and coke; I love everybody tonight, even the young roofer who has drunk himself shit-faced on Budweiser.   He stands very still, tries not to wobble when he, whoa, sees his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.   Seems I’ve known this guy all my life. Tomorrow morning he’ll show up at his mom’s house all scraped up with a chipped tooth and a story about some asshole in the bar.   Should I take his keys? Should I save him from himself? Should I call somebody who loves him?   I sip my drink. I smile at the band. Tap, tap tap goes my foot.