Featured Art: Female making manicure to ethnic woman with tattoos by Skylar Kang
See how I clasp it to me, thunderclap my way through. Oh constant invisible, oh emperor of the unruly, tell me— do I consume you or you me? Downcast, you stain me indigo but I love the blues—lapis lazuli and Billie Holiday and the neon tetra’s iridescence—is it biology?— I the algae, you my luminescence? But no, that’s too much— a fleshless excuse for excess. Hyper heart, you tattoo me, every inch of skin inked, but you are not indelible— see how I embrace the pleasure of erasure, the fleeting this, then this, the smudge and blur, the quickening pulse of swerve, of word, the veiled, the reviled, the revealed. And so, lost song of nightingale, swoop of lark, you are the ghosts of night, the smidgen of hope, the low-hanging, the high-flying— my wisteria, my hysteria, my gilt-edged book, my glint in the dark.
Their fights had always been drawn-out and passionate, thrilling in their possibility. The subjects of their arguments ran the gamut; Malcolm and Clare could employ almost anything as flint to spark the heat between them, setting their hearts leaping and their sharp tongues running wild: the empty soda can rolling around the Subaru, the knife marks grooved in the laminate countertop, the lack of remaining hot water in the morning, or that time, years ago, when the dog bowl had been left dry on a sultry day. The rhythm to their relationship was marked by peaks of tension, a pulse that proved their marriage was still alive—unlike those of some of their friends, whose flatlined politeness was so painfully false, resentment straining up beneath pert compliments and cute smiles. Malcolm and Clare were authentically in love, four years married and still willing to weather the turbulence of melding two lives together. Yet it was also true their latest fights seemed rote, their jibes more personal. The cause was lack of material, Clare felt. She blamed their unchanging surroundings.
“Your manner of blinking,” she said, interrupting Malcolm as he sat reading the golf report in his favorite recliner one February morning. “It’s bothersome.”
He glanced up, eyes fluttering, bewildered. “Excuse me?”
Clare set her turmeric milk on the coffee table. “There’s some kind of stutter to the way you blink.” She flicked her fingers off her thumb in two short bursts. “Like this,” she said. “I’m not sure you’re aware. It’s making me anxious.”
Clare spoke from her heart—she was genuinely bothered by Malcolm’s mannerisms, more so with each passing day. He’d developed a habit of repeatedly clearing his throat in the mornings that made her grab fistfuls of her dark hair and pull until her scalp felt strained. Just last week she’d noticed new strands of gray growing in along her part.
“I see,” Malcolm said. He creased the paper, eyes now flat and focused, strained wide.
Clare didn’t want this—she didn’t want him to suffer.
Featured Art: Faceless ballerina resting on floor with shade by Khoa Võ
Next to the Lost and Found, our church basement folding chair circle. Ten of us, week to week, scratch words in workbooks, read copies of How to Survive the Loss of a Love.
We pass or fail stages of grief. Video clips from the other side: a smiling blonde manages her checking account, living debt-free; gray men navigate dating and children.
Stories cycle in Share Time: Billy the missionary served 25 years with Kazakhstani orphans— one day, home on furlough, his wife drove to Walmart, never returned.
Dan’s wife ran off with the superintendent, and Sharon’s husband left her at Denny’s eating Moons Over My Hammy. She hasn’t had an egg since. I don’t know why, they said. Blame always a stick to be thrown.
Not your fault, we agreed. But maybe the fault was mine, the unsupportive wife, the wastrel. I drove 1700 miles, and still his voice, obscured by barroom backnoise,
Insufferable woman, come home. Each week I shift seats on the circle’s farthest curve. I’ve lost the knack for talking, afraid the other eyes will shinny up my face then flick away.
At Trader Joe’s, before group, while cashiers flip French bread into paper bags like a magic trick, I practice words. How to say I’ve left him, that he was mean to me. So I will be believed.
My sister says I greeted the swarm along the backyard slope, crawling, fat mouth slack, sodden Pampers saggy with supplication. Evidently, she scooped me up while they chased us through our father’s lavender azaleas where he dropped his shears and smashed yellow jackets against my skin, yanking off the diaper and waving it around his head like a lasso. We won’t get spanked again until winter. Everyone watches my sister declaim the tragic tale at family gatherings for decades as if she’s Dame Judi Dench. They love her nuanced performance, the lively hand gestures and operatic voice, how she tousles my hair before her triumphant finale: I got stung on my mouth, but he got stung in his asshole! I’m always grateful Dad isn’t here to witness this, or my marriage, or my career, or my incompetent gardening, the limp cosmos. I can’t believe you, a cousin smiles, shaking his head. Me neither, I reply. I don’t even know what I did.
Featured Art: Light Inside Library by Janko Ferlic
it will be the day after our fifteenth anniversary
we started late, so we were already middle-aged at the start so after fifteen years we’ll be what others call old
we will have lasted a solid fourteen years, ten months, and most of a day longer than I expected and so for fourteen years, ten months, and most of a day I’ll have been confused by our continuing existence
how will you go through fifteen years and most of a day without realising what a fuck-up I am?
during that time you’ll have been to more book launches than you ever expected you would, and since you never thought you’d ever be at a book launch your showing up at each of them will be a personal gift; you loiter at the back of the room with a bottle of whatever cold beer is your current choice, maybe Heineken that day; you don’t say much to the other people there, you sit quietly through the post-launch celebratory dinners when I’m buzzed and hyper or exhausted and freaked out and we hold hands under the table; once we get home we strip down and have sex and you still look at me like I’m the best thing you’ve ever seen
I won’t watch a single rugby game but I ask who won and if the All Blacks did alright, if it was a good game, and you give me your thoughts in a surprisingly detailed yet concise analysis because you know this shit bores me and from time to time I even remember one of the players’ names and you smile at me like you would a child trying to show off their knowledge of the alphabet despite always misplacing the q
we still live in separate houses because I’m smart enough to have figured out that living with someone isn’t something I can cope with; we spend time at each other’s homes but more at yours, even though your kids hate it when they drop by unannounced and we’re naked on the kitchen floor or I’m sucking you in the living room or you’re going down on me on the dining table
so your kids always knock on the door, loudly, then wait fifteen seconds before walking in
Featured Art: Children Playing on the Beach (1884) by Mary Cassatt
As I get you down from the closet shelf and unwrap the brown shipping paper to the square white box inside I lift the lid for the first time and stick my fingers deep inside you / What does she feel like Barbara says and I say go on see for yourself but she shushes me and leads the way out back to where the creek used to run and we just do it quickly without any words because words are a foolish way of asking forgiveness for these five years we’ve left you up there stacked amid the empty shoe boxes and children’s playthings / But now with both hands I swing the box like sand in a pail and scatter you into the overhead cave of the old Judas tree where your tiny parts glow for a flickering moment like early snow / And Barbara whispers yes Patsy I know still trying to find your way home again just like the whole rest of your life without somebody’s arm to hold on to
Featured Art: A Pond Near Rousillon by Adolphe Appian
it glows in frozen streaks each of its feathered limbs curved gently upward and i find myself pausing at the edge of the drive to stand very still in the needles of rain as if anchored here too stretching my arms overhead like some arthritic unpainted mime not because i need to make a statement about anything just that every now and then like the silent unfolding wings of the tree something stirs within me trying to say it believes
Featured Art: Green Fish About to Eat the Fish Hook Wall Art by The Lazy Artist Gallery
William Merritt Chase painted numerous versions of fish still lifes, many of which were quickly purchased by museums across the country. Because of the popularity of these works, the artist worried that he would be remembered only “as a painter of fish.” —placard, Art Institute of Chicago
The real thing rots. Corrupts, Decays, time-lapses, hollow to holes.
But yours—immortal, silver-scaled, so round— (Why should its roundness be wrenching?)
Realer than the real.
You were afraid this was what they’d remember you for. Afraid—as if there were somehow more than this.
Here one sees, forever, how it could fill the hand— How it would feel, filling one’s hand.
By Susan Finch Winner, Editors’ Prize in Prose: selected by Mandy Berman
Featured Art: Woman in Silver V-neck Long-sleeved Dress by Inga Seliverstova
As bachelorettes, we solemnly promise the next forty-eight hours will include three brunches, two happy hours, fifteen moderate disagreements, one unforgettable fight, eight matching T-shirts, one bar crawl, one pedal tavern, one sprained wrist, three twisted ankles, sixteen hangovers, too many tearful promises to count, and one sober regret. We are the bachelorettes and we insist.
We must begin with brunch, and in order to fit three brunches into forty-eight hours, we will congregate Friday morning. After all, brunch is the most important meal of the day. We can eat French toast and French fries, and getting tipsy or emotional (i.e., Lydia has too many feelings after bottomless mimosas) will not be frowned upon. Not every restaurant serves brunch on Friday, so we must select carefully, find a place that has an all-day breakfast menu, and really, why shouldn’t a restaurant serve breakfast food all day. It’s not so hard to whip up a couple of poached eggs, is it? We will reserve the table for 10:30; the proper time to eat brunch is 11, but we already know that some of our bachelorettes will be late—particularly Tara, the bride’s sister. She’s a musician and runs on her own schedule, and of course, Felicia. She hasn’t been able to get anywhere on time since the new baby.
Event attire is outlined in the invitation—brunches are for sundresses or rompers paired with cute cowboy boots or wedge sandals. We do not do flats—flats are for business casual events or maybe if you’re trying to let someone down easy. Matching T-shirts will be provided for the pedal tavern that begins promptly at four. The shirts may be knotted at your hip or tucked in with a cute belt, but please do not leave your shirt untucked. Evening wear will have two themes: Friday red and Saturday sparkle, and the bride, of course, will wear white. No one else should plan to wear white or anything white adjacent —no cream, no ivory, no pearl, no silver, no soft grays, no misty light blues or sugary beige. Don’t pack it. Don’t even think about it. We don’t want anyone to steal the bride’s thunder. After all, we are the bachelorettes, and it is our job to insist.
By George Bilgere Winner, Editors’ Prize in Poetry: selected by J. Allyn Rosser
Featured Art: Mounted Model of a Polar Bearfrom United States National Museum Photographic Laboratory
A father died heroically in some Alaskan park while trying to save his kids from a polar bear.
Long ago, when his mother gave birth one summer afternoon in Bakersfield, California, could anyone have prophesied, as in an old myth, that the baby crying at her breast would one day be killed and partially eaten by a polar bear?
Has anyone from Bakersfield, California been killed and partially eaten by a polar bear? Yet her son was. He looked up from making camp, pitching the tent or lighting his Coleman stove, and there it was, white and immense. His fate.
And he died heroically and was partially eaten.
Of course, the bear had to be killed. The rangers shot it, which makes sense. You can’t have polar bears running around in the wilderness! The wilderness is a place for dads and kids and Coleman stoves. Polar bears just . . . they just kind of ruin the whole thing.
As for the bear, it didn’t die heroically. It just got shot and fell over and was sent to a lab for testing.
My son slipped on the concrete by the pool and smacked his head. Blood cauling on his small shoulders. The doctor stitching him whole. Three years on, after a haircut, the scar still rises, a quarter moon a woman will ask about as they lie there one night, her fingers in his hair, her voice in his ear, the secret delight of him—a bit like burnt toast—in her nostrils as she takes his strangeness into her. What she won’t know is how the frail, Phidian skull I held that day in my hands resounded on the hot concrete. It echoed all summer, less like an egg cracking in a bowl, or a world breaking, than the wild knocking of love against my heart. Dear girl who will one day win him, that part of the boy is mine.
Featured Art: Scott Catalogue USA PC7 from National Postal Museum
A half-eaten waffle, syrup-logged in a plastic takeout container, dropped in the middle of the street. Bald man in a blue truck slows down, cranes his head out the window to get a closer look. Suited folk
coming home from church swerve. It’s finally cool enough, after 37 days of dry heat, to turn off the air conditioning, open windows. Hooting and hollering from the apartments as someone on TV scores a touchdown.
Last night a friend came over. She has 16 pets, most of them rescue animals: dogs, cats, rabbits, and ducks. She installed a heated pond in a spare bedroom. She’s worried about how to transport them when she moves to Maine as a climate refugee.
A grandmother and grandkids carrying leftovers in Styrofoam walk past the waffle. Dark feathers brush across the storm-swift sky. A car drives over it, wheels straddling the soggy breakfast. Something exciting happens in the game:
Yeah! Then clapping. My friend with 16 pets has no hope life on earth will get better. If you think we have an immigration crisis now, wait until Mumbai is uninhabitable, she says. Everyone on the planet is moving to Canada.
I think of a fable where a rich man buries a bag of gold in the middle of the road and covers it with a boulder. Then he watches. Some people are angry. Some ignore it and walk around it. Only one boy
thinks to move the stone. My friend thinks that by 2050 the high desert will be too hot to survive. We’ll run out of water. She thinks we are hurtling ourselves out of the habitable zone. But I think of pyramids and vaccines and walking on the moon.
Humans adapt. Imagine, all of us trying to fit in the northernmost region of North America. She thinks it’s impossible because the rich are already buying up all the land and building homes there.
A girl in a striped shirt and red pants walks a dog with an upcurled toffee-colored tail. The dog stops to sniff as thunder growls across the valley. Four teenagers on bicycles. Another couple with three dogs, hair and fur rising
in gusts. Wind rhythms the chimes, thunder drums closer and the first sweet slaps of rain hit burnt tips of leaves, brown grass, dried lily stalks. Smell of wet cement. Soon, a miniature river bounces in the gutter.
Clatter of rain drowns out the game. A neighbor checking his mail—leopard-print kimono sticking to his long legs, arms waving wildly to shoo the storm, yelling out as if in pain— bends to pick up the waffle. Raindrops plinking like millions of silver coins.
Upon a hill, a house. Upon the house, a roof. On the roof, a bird. The bird— oiled feathers, beak like an awl—grooms the roof’s moss, subsists on ticks and silverfish. Inside the house, a man without a tongue and a woman who loves him. The woman grooms the house, subsists on potatoes and rice and whatever rodents roam the slope. The man hunts every day until noon. Every day he returns empty-handed, his shoulders tense as flywheels, his jaw the floor of a collapsed cave, crowded with everything he cannot say. She brews his tea. She washes the corners of the house. She chases the bird away. At sundown the man leaves again, hunting. Upon another hill, another house. Another woman waits inside. The man without a tongue feasts on rabbit she trapped in a pit. From fireplace ashes she makes lye and scrubs his back. She fills his canteen with it. By the time her sister misses him, his body has sunk to the bottom of the pond.
By Tania De Rozario Winner, New Ohio Review Nonfiction Contest: selected by Ira Sukrungruang
Featured Art: The Last Supper By H. Siddons Mowbray
1993. That’s when it happens. Two months after your twelfth birthday. It’s a sweaty afternoon. This day which blisters with possibility. This day you learn that there are demons inside of you.
You’re on your way home from school. You know something is wrong the minute you get off the bus. Your mother waits at the bus stop, teary-eyed. Your relationship has grown monosyllabic, but the tears feel like a warning, so you ask.
What’s wrong?
It is when she smiles that something inside you unravels. You realize hers are happy tears. But her smile is vacant. Placid. A Stepford Wives smile. The tears fall but there is nothing behind them. She’s a mannequin crying on command. A talking-doll with electronics scrambled.
You don’t have the language for this yet.
She grabs you, holds you tight: Nana has been saved!
Featured Art: Jesus Christ, the Virgin and St. John the Baptist with Saints Paul and Catherine, ca. 1520 designed by Raphael, printed by Marc Antonio Raimondi
I was eighty-two again and Jesus came perched like an angel on top of my fridge, his palms spread open.
Almost old enough to be comfortable going, I wondered if he had come to take me. “Are you here for me?” I asked him.
I was eighty-two and my eyesight was dimming, but I was in good health for my age. And in my good health
I saw how lovely Jesus was, how physically lovely, and I felt like kissing his stomach. Not even where it was whipped
or wounded, or where the vinegar dripped onto it as it overflowed from the taunting sponge, but just
his belly, carefully haired, divinely flat and strong and hungry and disciplined. May I May I May I, I prayed,
and when finally he said I could I pulled the stepladder out from under the sink and gathered myself on top of it.
Then I kissed the stomach of Jesus. It tasted like the steam that arises from dry ice. I kept the wind at bay,
but it was difficult to do so, what with the howling just then picking up and all.
I am two vowels strung twenty years long. My life a ransom letter written by a cardiogram, tympanic as traffic & the lights of traffic
that renew the tercets of Esso stations standing violent as macaws in the ululative night. I need lithium or language, nurse.
I need words to fall like ricin from an envelope. Clearly, my synapses need seeing to. So, please, repo the verb of me.
Conduct me swiftly through the conjunction of Tennessee where nouns loiter like limbs languid with Quaaludes, where daylight breaks
like a mouthful of fentanyl over the teeth of a country that cares not for such news. Should a poem be the pill or the pharmacy?
Should I pledge myself to this business as if it were Gerard Manley Hopkins or Jesus Christ? Here I am, Lord, earnest as a rice cooker, lively as Superman
in his leotard, my spiritual fizz empirical as Pepsi & just as cheap. Jesus, Gerard— who will irrigate these ears from error?
Who will whisper that in the empire of swans the black cygnet is Elvis? All around me the malady of my unmaking
unmans me: roadside trash, unrecycled recyclables, my shadow laid like a new suit over the bus bench & birds behind it. All this urban tumbleweed,
all these words for worse. When whoever’s kingdom it is comes calling for it will the last televangelist of grammar go angled like an angel in the direction
of their god? Or will America just eat my opioids as it like Nemo poisons its seas to peace?
When I was a verb I thought as a verb so I did as a verb, just like the police. Tonight the moon slouches in its straitjacket of stars. There’s a multinational
wind afoot, some merry beast loose, all pronoun without surcease. What rooky woods will it rouse first? What islands will it make of our bodies yet?
David Wanczyk: We’re talking on Zoom today with Ada Limón, author of five award-winning collections of poetry, and Jaswinder Bolina, author of three acclaimed collections and the recent book of essays Of Color. And we’re talking only 16 days after the police shooting of Jacob Blake, when months of predominantly peaceful protests have been met by ever more ominous counterprotest, when our election is threatened by a virus and dishonesty, when we simply miss our friends, and when many of us are even more exhausted than usual; and yet I’m happy to be having this conversation because these are two writers who have given me a clear-eyed bucking-up in the past, who refuse to ignore the struggle, but find—at least seem to find—a kind of dog-chewed, persevering, loveliness and electricity in their work. Even when, as Limón writes, quote, “the country plummets into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn’t there still something singing?”
And so I want to ask both of you—How are you? First, but also, how are you as artists listening for what’s still singing? How can we—can we resist what feels like the desperation of our country?
Ada Limón: Hmm. Hmm. Just start there? [laughs]
Jaswinder Bolina: An easy a softball to start, to lead off.
We live in green depths of trees planted by those who grew old and died or moved away our children play in yards theirs left behind and sleep in rooms that held two or even three until they grew our children too are growing in summer we box outgrown clothes repaint the walls new tiles for the bath new shingles the trees don’t seem to change though of course they must the backyard beech and oaks that will outlast us casting a deeper shade the front yard holly reaching farther over the drive we pull in and out of always in a rush someone running back for what they forgot the trees keep some other kind of time spend whole seasons taking in their sustenance strange food without substance every summer a feast of light
Featured Art: Blossoming Cherry Treesby Kano Sanraku (1559-1635)
I waited for it in the fork of a cherry tree. On the LL train. Made bed for it in my 8th Street room. I left gaps in sentences where it could land. Dug holes, smoked ham, lost bets and innocence, granted exculpation long before it sinned. To track its scent, I stripped and whorled, committed perfidy, burned effigies and caramelized figs. I rubbed nougat with licorice and seven sprigs of dill. I renamed myself after it, just to see how I rang. Morning, midnight, noon and dusk, I texted, sexted, called and faxed it. For years and years, I slept unkept, sculpting pleas and letters of regret. And then one day it was in my palm. Smooth as a peanut, smelling of pine. Dzweep, said a jay from the elm above my head, then bolt-like he dove and snatched it away. Beautiful hard-eyed thief, leaving nothing but an ampersand. My core cracked like a deer- struck windshield. It splintered into little hearts shuffled through a deck. So I wrote this in red.
Perhaps, on your downtown lunch stroll in unseasonably cheery weather, you walk up on a flock of grackles on the ground in front of Urban Outfitters, their impact marks still drying on the window recently washed to display Big Sur Ribbed Pullovers and the Willow Fuzzy Drawstring Teddy, as if anyone believes October’s still a sweater month.
Perhaps you become suddenly dizzy, a strange gravity drawing you toward this constellation of twitching black holes opened in the sidewalk at your feet. And perhaps this brings to mind how it feels when your face falls from your face.
In the old days before the imminent apocalypse, the pattern would be read as omen: a toothache’s coming on, the breath of your bride-to-be will sour every time she walks in moonlight, your best cow will soon grow milk-sick. The prescriptions would be just as clear: wash your warp and dye it while a new moon waxes; steal a neighbor’s crickets and install them in your hearth; milk with one hand only.
Perhaps, even now, you try to read in the little bodies some feathered correspondence: this relates to that. If you step on a crack, the snowy plover will slip into extinction; if you breathe out while passing a cemetery, Greenland’s ice shelf will break off and float away. But the letters blur and you can’t discern the news from the wrecked wings and necks.
David Wanczyk: We’re talking on Zoom today with Ada Limón, author of five award-winning collections of poetry, and Jaswinder Bolina, author of three acclaimed collections and the recent book of essays Of Color. And we’re talking only 16 days after the police shooting of Jacob Blake, when months of predominantly peaceful protests have been met by ever more ominous counterprotest, when our election is threatened by a virus and dishonesty, when we simply miss our friends, and when many of us are even more exhausted than usual; and yet I’m happy to be having this conversation because these are two writers who have given me a clear-eyed bucking-up in the past, who refuse to ignore the struggle, but find—at least seem to find—a kind of dog-chewed, persevering, loveliness and electricity in their work. Even when, as Limón writes, quote “the country plummets into a crepitating crater of hatred, isn’t there still something singing?”
And so I want to ask both of you—How are you? First, but also, how are you as artists listening for what’s still singing? How can we—can we resist what feels like the desperation of our country?
Ada Limón: Hmm. Hmm. Just start there? [laughs]
Jaswinder Bolina: An easy a softball to start, to lead off.
Newohioreview.org is archiving previous editions as they originally appeared. We are pairing the pieces with curated art work, as well as select audio recordings. In collaboration with our past contributors, we are happy to (re)-present this outstanding work.
Selected as runner-up of the 2014 New Ohio Review Fiction Contest by Aimee Bender
Featured Art: Pepita by Robert Henri
The small boy says to his big sister, “Why did we kill all the Indians?”
They’re in the basement playing a video game. Both of them are white.
“We didn’t kill them,” says his big sister, “our ancestors did.”
“Why did our ancestors kill all the Indians?”
“Okay, not really our ancestors because Dad’s family came in the 20s and Mom’s in the Sixties and the Indians were already totally dead by then, mostly.”
“Why did ancestors kill all the Indians?”
“But I guess you could say it was us, pretty much, because today we’re basically the same culture as the culture of the people who killed the Indians back then. And it’s ‘Native Americans,’ not ‘Indians.’ ‘Indians’ is ignorant.”
The small boy says to his angry stepmom, “Why did we kill all the Native Americans?”
They’re returning from the grocery store in hardly any traffic. Plastic bags stuffed with food rustle in the back seat.
And now, instead of staring at the weeds and broken bottles from the train platform, we’re taking in a scene from a Monet. Asters, cosmos, little yellow fists of something. All random and confetti. I’m half expecting a lady in a high-waist dress and bonnet to appear on a diagonal stroll through its splendor, pausing with her parasol so we can selfie with her. Maybe she’ll hop aboard the light rail to the Amtrak station, get off in D.C., step back into the painting she escaped from. Who was the genius who thought of this? What meadow-in-a-can Samaritan got sick of passing the four-acre eyesore on the way to work? Shook pity into blossom. To whom do I write my thank you? Mayor, surveyor, county clerk, church lady. Who marched down to city hall, begged anyone who would listen?
Featured Art: Orchid Blossoms by Martin Johnson Heade
Only a few students competed in Kingston Junior High’s first geography bee and nobody came to watch. We lined up in the band room submerged in our flannel shirts, fidgeting, happy to escape sixth period. Pine trees pressed the window. No one expected to win except me, though I wouldn’t admit it and tried my best to look bored. I tucked my hands into my baggy Adidas jacket, the only brand-name clothing I owned—I almost never took it off—poised to triumph if I could answer the next question. Mrs. Raymond, chubby purveyor of the world to our damp county, read us questions from a stapled packet stamped National Geographic Society.
“What world river has seen the greatest number of refugees cross its shores?” She pronounced ref-u-gees in three careful beats and looked mournful, as if uncertain there could be an answer to such a question.
New Ohio Review 