I'm determined to move us into the woods, so deep your lips chap and crumble like dry leaves on the forest floor. I promise I won't mind them on my cheek. Going home, that's what it will be like for me.
It was dark when the baby and I came home tonight. I sat in the truck with the radio loud, wishing you were here to open my door and shine the flashlight before my feet as I carried the baby into the house.
I'm sorry I don't miss you enough until you are gone for a couple of days.
I thought about country boys this evening. I sat down with a cold one and tried to remember the last time I popped the top on my own beer when you were around. I tried to remember the last time I changed the oil in my truck. I tried to remember the last time I replaced a fuse in the box.
It's hard to remember life pre-you.
There are nights I don't wake you, even though the loneliness within me holds strong like the hay bales we curled into the first night you took me in the barn. I know you want me to roll over, mash my palm against yours, but I let you sleep because you have to work in the morning, because I'm proud, because I like the way my leg twitches and my stomach lurches whenever I get sorry on myself.
'Am safe. Love you,' you sent through the phone tonight, when you used to write to me in the dirt on the backdoor window.
I'm determined to move us deep into the woods, so deep cell phones have no service, so deep that I can stand on the back porch with a cup of coffee and call you in, so deep you roll over and hold my leg still during the night.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Isolation
Sometimes he says things he thinks will keep me from withdrawing into the quiet.
It was my night, my friends, my interests.
I don't think he can handle me connecting with others.
We have a group.
Anyone outside of that group is threatening.
He says things.
Over burritos, he says he fears what is behind my pretty face.
It's not empowerment.
It's isolation.
It was my night, my friends, my interests.
I don't think he can handle me connecting with others.
We have a group.
Anyone outside of that group is threatening.
He says things.
Over burritos, he says he fears what is behind my pretty face.
It's not empowerment.
It's isolation.
Sandstone
Nothing could stand this much rain. The dust churned up in the fields today is stripped from the house. The rain seeps through holes in the gutter and pushes soil out of the hanging baskets. I should have been in bed hours ago but the screen door closes so softly when he's sound asleep.
Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote, "I wish I could paint her so as to interest others as much as she does me."
Day to day, it's easy to forget that I can't be smoothed. Only when I'm replete with time to ponder do I remember that life grits me like two pieces of sandstone struck against each other.
Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote, "I wish I could paint her so as to interest others as much as she does me."
Day to day, it's easy to forget that I can't be smoothed. Only when I'm replete with time to ponder do I remember that life grits me like two pieces of sandstone struck against each other.
Midnight Fog
She's finally gone. I deadbolt the front door so she can't get back in. If my mother returns, I'll tell her I didn't hear the door. I was afraid. I was sleeping. I'll never tell her I was lonely.
I stand before my hazy bedroom mirror and check off my inventory: a Fuck the World poster; dead flowers in a dirty vase; and tiny strings of incense ash dangling off the bookshelf, dangerously hovering above thick red shag carpet. I unwrap the white towel, dingy and stained from the black dye fading out of my mohawk, and lie down on the bed. He always liked it when I got naked before I called.
"Hello?"
"Come see me tonight," I say into the phone.
"Crystal?"
"Come see me."
"Where are you?"
"Back at my mother's."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Anxiety awakens in my heart. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to know that I'll only have tonight, but I have to. I need a lump to rise in the back of my throat. I need a pain in my heart that draws up my stomach. I need to feel like I can never have him again. I lie to myself and say this will be the last time.
I go to the mirror. I want him to see me and ache. I pull my hair over my shoulders so the freshly shaven sides of my head are covered. I want to look innocent and helpless - at first. But even under the cover of hair, the rings in my nipples catch the light of the lamp. He'll have to use his imagination.
He'll stop at the park three blocks away. He'll trot down the sidewalk on the north side of the road where there are no streetlamps. He'll hold onto the latch on the gate, push the gate closed, then gently lower the latch, without raising sound or suspicion.
I hear a grunt below my bedroom window as he climbs on top of the iron railing and grabs his key. He slips open the door. The deadbolt locks behind him.
He doesn't say anything when he comes through my bedroom door. He slowly undresses, watching me, searching my face. I smile, and he climbs into bed.
Every midnight meeting with him is new now, despite the routine that brings us together. The moon reflects off his black hairless chest. I kiss it. He buries his nose in my hair, and I chew the end of a dreadlock.
He is so sweet when he cries. A hint of heartbroken-induced wrinkles curl around his eyes and white teeth gnash between beautiful full lips.
I wrap my arms around his body and feel for the long thin scars on his back, scars put there by me when I was young and selfless. My thumb brushes across the ripples and he grins through the tears, remembering that night at the park, in the backseat of the blue Lincoln, shadows of the trees dancing across my belly. Beautiful, white, perfect teeth in a grin I will never see again.
We don't have sex or make love just yet. We remember emotions. Every sour word ever passed between us lies in the bed. We toss it back and forth. What made those words slip over our tongues? What caused us to separate in anger? How could we so easily tuck away our relationship - this relationship - and pretend as though we could go on forever without each other?
When I was young and selfless, he used to pull me against his chest and surround me with his arms. I was helpless, completely dependent upon the steel cage he built around me. Tonight, I pull him to my chest. His breath fogs the metal rings in my nipples. He sobs. Without me, he says, life is lonely.
But I know he is just like me. Without me isn't lonely, just as without him isn't lonely. Finality hurts. Finality is a song you've heard but only remember two words of the lyrics. You can't explain what you remember clearly enough so another can help you find it again. That final kiss, the lips you know you'll never feel again, the wet pillowcase, the rush, the anger, the hate, the absolute goodness of being out of control are why you look for it again and again.
The newness of the first lingering kiss has worn off, and I know I'll never feel those emotions again until I convince myself it's the end.
I stand before my hazy bedroom mirror and check off my inventory: a Fuck the World poster; dead flowers in a dirty vase; and tiny strings of incense ash dangling off the bookshelf, dangerously hovering above thick red shag carpet. I unwrap the white towel, dingy and stained from the black dye fading out of my mohawk, and lie down on the bed. He always liked it when I got naked before I called.
"Hello?"
"Come see me tonight," I say into the phone.
"Crystal?"
"Come see me."
"Where are you?"
"Back at my mother's."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Anxiety awakens in my heart. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to know that I'll only have tonight, but I have to. I need a lump to rise in the back of my throat. I need a pain in my heart that draws up my stomach. I need to feel like I can never have him again. I lie to myself and say this will be the last time.
I go to the mirror. I want him to see me and ache. I pull my hair over my shoulders so the freshly shaven sides of my head are covered. I want to look innocent and helpless - at first. But even under the cover of hair, the rings in my nipples catch the light of the lamp. He'll have to use his imagination.
He'll stop at the park three blocks away. He'll trot down the sidewalk on the north side of the road where there are no streetlamps. He'll hold onto the latch on the gate, push the gate closed, then gently lower the latch, without raising sound or suspicion.
I hear a grunt below my bedroom window as he climbs on top of the iron railing and grabs his key. He slips open the door. The deadbolt locks behind him.
He doesn't say anything when he comes through my bedroom door. He slowly undresses, watching me, searching my face. I smile, and he climbs into bed.
Every midnight meeting with him is new now, despite the routine that brings us together. The moon reflects off his black hairless chest. I kiss it. He buries his nose in my hair, and I chew the end of a dreadlock.
He is so sweet when he cries. A hint of heartbroken-induced wrinkles curl around his eyes and white teeth gnash between beautiful full lips.
I wrap my arms around his body and feel for the long thin scars on his back, scars put there by me when I was young and selfless. My thumb brushes across the ripples and he grins through the tears, remembering that night at the park, in the backseat of the blue Lincoln, shadows of the trees dancing across my belly. Beautiful, white, perfect teeth in a grin I will never see again.
We don't have sex or make love just yet. We remember emotions. Every sour word ever passed between us lies in the bed. We toss it back and forth. What made those words slip over our tongues? What caused us to separate in anger? How could we so easily tuck away our relationship - this relationship - and pretend as though we could go on forever without each other?
When I was young and selfless, he used to pull me against his chest and surround me with his arms. I was helpless, completely dependent upon the steel cage he built around me. Tonight, I pull him to my chest. His breath fogs the metal rings in my nipples. He sobs. Without me, he says, life is lonely.
But I know he is just like me. Without me isn't lonely, just as without him isn't lonely. Finality hurts. Finality is a song you've heard but only remember two words of the lyrics. You can't explain what you remember clearly enough so another can help you find it again. That final kiss, the lips you know you'll never feel again, the wet pillowcase, the rush, the anger, the hate, the absolute goodness of being out of control are why you look for it again and again.
The newness of the first lingering kiss has worn off, and I know I'll never feel those emotions again until I convince myself it's the end.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Mirrors
Within the first hour of coming back to him, I knew it was only for the night. He didn't hand me the single helmet hanging on the handlebars of his motorcycle. Instead he pulled back his red hair and secured the strap behind his goatee.
I unfolded the last dollars from my back pocket and wrote my name in the motel registry while he sat outside flipping his keys in the air. Stepping back into the night, I noticed the stars were prettier than I had been in a long time; I wished for tar clouds, or hurried rain, or a warm hand to cover my eyes.
He turned on the porno channel and muted the volume. He fluffed a yellowed pillow and propped it up against the headboard, below the cigarette burns and next to the chipped wooden post, then relieved the top two buttons on his jeans.
I saw all of this in the mirrors that lined the walls like a fancy department store dressing room, so I undressed. Eyes on the dirty television screen, one hand in his pants, he motioned for me.
He was an arrow, wounding me then sealing his infection inside the wound. I stayed under the covers long past the cleaning lady's knock on the door, long after I heard the chrome shiver on his motorcycle. I climbed out once to look at the empty parking space and noticed myself in the mirrors. I was naked, smiling, pale as a star.
I unfolded the last dollars from my back pocket and wrote my name in the motel registry while he sat outside flipping his keys in the air. Stepping back into the night, I noticed the stars were prettier than I had been in a long time; I wished for tar clouds, or hurried rain, or a warm hand to cover my eyes.
He turned on the porno channel and muted the volume. He fluffed a yellowed pillow and propped it up against the headboard, below the cigarette burns and next to the chipped wooden post, then relieved the top two buttons on his jeans.
I saw all of this in the mirrors that lined the walls like a fancy department store dressing room, so I undressed. Eyes on the dirty television screen, one hand in his pants, he motioned for me.
He was an arrow, wounding me then sealing his infection inside the wound. I stayed under the covers long past the cleaning lady's knock on the door, long after I heard the chrome shiver on his motorcycle. I climbed out once to look at the empty parking space and noticed myself in the mirrors. I was naked, smiling, pale as a star.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Secrets
I used to tell him stories. Lying in bed, the touch of his skin made hotter by my beer buzz, I told him about the first time my mother hit me, the tampon I threw behind the dumpster the night I lost my virginity, and the gun I found under the sofa cushion hours before Doug committed suicide.
Years later, I can recall every story I told him, every secret he knows about me, but cannot, no matter how hard I try, remember him ever having said he loved me.
He must have at some point, or wouldn't I have quieted my tongue?
Years later, I can recall every story I told him, every secret he knows about me, but cannot, no matter how hard I try, remember him ever having said he loved me.
He must have at some point, or wouldn't I have quieted my tongue?
Stories
I used to tell him stories. Lying in bed, the touch of his skin made hotter by my beer buzz, I told him about the first time my mother hit me, the tampon I threw behind the dumpster the night I lost my virginity, and the gun I found under the sofa cushion hours before Doug committed suicide.
Years later, I can recall every story I told him, every secret he knows about me, but cannot, no matter how hard I try, remember him ever having said he loved me.
He must have at some point, or wouldn't I have quieted my tongue?
Years later, I can recall every story I told him, every secret he knows about me, but cannot, no matter how hard I try, remember him ever having said he loved me.
He must have at some point, or wouldn't I have quieted my tongue?
Friday, July 11, 2008
Scars
She overheard, while dressing after gym class, that it stained. Lying in bed that night, bare arms shoved under the pillow behind her head, she thought about thin lines of pink on white cotton. A pain much deeper than she was able to give herself without having to focus on toys or weapons of choice.
She had always inflicted her own pain so she could control taking it away. She couldn't cut; she didn't like to look inside. Burning. The threat, but not assurance, of her soft meat erupting at the flick of a lighter or the strike of a match was usually enough. That another could so easily bruise her soft, untouched creases left a dull thrill that kept her up half the night.
She had played around with boys but had never gone too far. She wasn't a tease. She didn't want them to want that from her. But it was hard to keep them content the older they got. The steady stream of attention she had received from boys since junior high was dwindling. No longer happy with gazing, rubbing, and touching, they stopped waiting for her after school in the parking lot. No more rough kisses over the consoles of suped up Javelins and Mustangs. No more groping on sofas in the glow of MTV's Liquid Television.
So on her third date with a man, not a boy, who picked her up in a car he owned and took her to dinner at a restaurant, not a buffet or pizza joint, she handed over her control.
He was easy. He talked to her in words not intended to coerce. Loved her without saying he did. He never mentioned the rush to take her home. He never mentioned a curfew, hers or his. And afterwards, he turned on the shower, scalding and steamy, as if he knew, and washed the scent of sex out of her hair.
He didn't find it funny or sexy when he caught her in the kitchen later that night with a lighter in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, but his kissed the burn anyway before smearing a glob of A & D ointment on her thigh.
She had always inflicted her own pain so she could control taking it away. She couldn't cut; she didn't like to look inside. Burning. The threat, but not assurance, of her soft meat erupting at the flick of a lighter or the strike of a match was usually enough. That another could so easily bruise her soft, untouched creases left a dull thrill that kept her up half the night.
She had played around with boys but had never gone too far. She wasn't a tease. She didn't want them to want that from her. But it was hard to keep them content the older they got. The steady stream of attention she had received from boys since junior high was dwindling. No longer happy with gazing, rubbing, and touching, they stopped waiting for her after school in the parking lot. No more rough kisses over the consoles of suped up Javelins and Mustangs. No more groping on sofas in the glow of MTV's Liquid Television.
So on her third date with a man, not a boy, who picked her up in a car he owned and took her to dinner at a restaurant, not a buffet or pizza joint, she handed over her control.
He was easy. He talked to her in words not intended to coerce. Loved her without saying he did. He never mentioned the rush to take her home. He never mentioned a curfew, hers or his. And afterwards, he turned on the shower, scalding and steamy, as if he knew, and washed the scent of sex out of her hair.
He didn't find it funny or sexy when he caught her in the kitchen later that night with a lighter in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, but his kissed the burn anyway before smearing a glob of A & D ointment on her thigh.
The Three Little Pigs
Jake was the first to do everything. The first to steal a pack of Lucky Strikes. The first to smooth pot into a long slender line and lick the rolling paper. He liked to test the drugs before giving them to Emily and Allison, his girls.
Tight, studded with the coolness of Anthony Kiedis and the angst of Eddie Vedder, Jake walked them down the hallway the first day of their freshman year and quickly became their in-between man. Jealousy only existed in relationships outside the trio, and jealousy often forced loyalty.
He snorted for three months before inviting the girls into his bag. Emily had giggled. Allison had waited to see what happened to Emily before shocking her nose with the burn. Two hours later, Jake pulled over into a Thorton's gas station, and for the next hour, snubbed one butt-less cigarette after another into the curb while Emily and Allison detailed his car.
He only supplied them on the weekends; eventually starting the weekend on Friday morning so they could crash on Sunday, then adding a Thursday to make it a four day weekend. They didn't worry much at first, even after Emily's nose started running pink and Jake's tawny cheeks became flecked with scabs. They had each other and a loyalty to the bag.
Allison was the first to find the smoke, the good stuff; the better quality, the less Jake would pick at the imaginary mites on his skin; the better quality in smokable form, meant the flesh in Emily's nose might have a chance to heal.
She tried it first, a taste with the dealer, but unlike Jake, she was anxious to share, anxious to help her friends, and couldn't get over the fact that when she sucked the pipe, it felt like she was smoking pot. She wasn't over the edge after all. She was slowly backing away.
Allison spent all her money on the smoke. It was more expensive, but it was healthier, she told herself. If it had just been her, she would have kept it up the nose, but she had Emily and Jake to think about. Still, she couldn't afford a good pipe. And she didn't know the right people to tell her where to get one, besides the guy who told her she was too young to smoke but still sold her the bag after she said - while leaning against the door frame, all prettied up in a dull haired, crank sweating kind of way - that she was buying for her dad.
Allison was always the smart one though. She unscrewed the bulb in the bathroom since it had a vanity light and an overhead, tapped and twisted until the silver bottom sat in her hand like a popped off button, sucked the smoke into her pink lungs, then offered it to her friends.
Tight, studded with the coolness of Anthony Kiedis and the angst of Eddie Vedder, Jake walked them down the hallway the first day of their freshman year and quickly became their in-between man. Jealousy only existed in relationships outside the trio, and jealousy often forced loyalty.
He snorted for three months before inviting the girls into his bag. Emily had giggled. Allison had waited to see what happened to Emily before shocking her nose with the burn. Two hours later, Jake pulled over into a Thorton's gas station, and for the next hour, snubbed one butt-less cigarette after another into the curb while Emily and Allison detailed his car.
He only supplied them on the weekends; eventually starting the weekend on Friday morning so they could crash on Sunday, then adding a Thursday to make it a four day weekend. They didn't worry much at first, even after Emily's nose started running pink and Jake's tawny cheeks became flecked with scabs. They had each other and a loyalty to the bag.
Allison was the first to find the smoke, the good stuff; the better quality, the less Jake would pick at the imaginary mites on his skin; the better quality in smokable form, meant the flesh in Emily's nose might have a chance to heal.
She tried it first, a taste with the dealer, but unlike Jake, she was anxious to share, anxious to help her friends, and couldn't get over the fact that when she sucked the pipe, it felt like she was smoking pot. She wasn't over the edge after all. She was slowly backing away.
Allison spent all her money on the smoke. It was more expensive, but it was healthier, she told herself. If it had just been her, she would have kept it up the nose, but she had Emily and Jake to think about. Still, she couldn't afford a good pipe. And she didn't know the right people to tell her where to get one, besides the guy who told her she was too young to smoke but still sold her the bag after she said - while leaning against the door frame, all prettied up in a dull haired, crank sweating kind of way - that she was buying for her dad.
Allison was always the smart one though. She unscrewed the bulb in the bathroom since it had a vanity light and an overhead, tapped and twisted until the silver bottom sat in her hand like a popped off button, sucked the smoke into her pink lungs, then offered it to her friends.
Alone
She's finally gone. I deadbolt the front door so she can't get back in. If my mother returns, I'll tell her I didn't hear the door. I was afraid. I was sleeping. I'll never tell her I was lonely.
I stand before my hazy bedroom mirror and check off my inventory; a Fuck the World poster, dead flowers in a dirty vase, and tiny strings of incense ash hanging off the bookshelf, dangerously hovering above thick red shag carpet. I unwrap the white towel, dingy and stained from the black dye fading out of my mohawk, and lie down on the bed. He always liked it when I got naked before I called.
"Hello?"
"Come see me tonight," I say into the phone.
"Crys?"
"Come see me."
"Where are you?"
"Back at my mother's."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Anxiety awakens in my heart. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to know that I'll only have tonight, but I have to. I need a lump to rise in the back of my throat. I need a pain in my heart that draws up my stomach. I need to feel like I can never have him again. I lie to myself and say this will be the last time.
I go to the mirror. I want him to see me and ache. I pull my hair over my shoulders so the freshly shaven sides of my head are covered. I want to look innocent and helpless - at first. But even under the cover of hair, the rings in my nipples catch the light of the lamp. He'll have to use his imagination.
He'll stop at the park three blocks away. He'll trot down the sidewalk on the north side of the road where there are no streetlamps. He'll hold onto the latch on the gate. He'll push the gate closed and gently lower the latch, without raising a sound or suspicion.
I hear a grunt below my bedroom window when he climbs on top of the iron railing and reaches above the kitchen window. The key slides into the door. The deadbolt locks behind him.
He doesn't say anything when he comes through my bedroom door. He slowly undresses, watching me, searching my face. I smile and he climbs into bed.
Every time with him is new now, despite the routine that brings us together. The moon reflects off his black hairless chest. I kiss it. He buries his nose in my hair, and I chew the end of a dreadlock.
He is so sweet when he cries. A hint of heartbroken-induced wrinkles curl around his eyes and white teeth gnash between beautiful full lips.
I wrap my arms around his chest and feel for the long thin scars on his back, scars put there by me when I was young and selfless. My thumb brushes across the ripples and he grins through the tears, remembering that night at the park, in the backseat of the blue Lincoln, shadows of the trees dancing across my belly. Beautiful, white, perfect teeth in a grin I will never see again.
We don't have sex or make love just yet. We remember emotions. Every sour word ever passed between us lies in the bed. We toss it back and forth. What made those words slip over our tongues? What caused us to separate in anger? How could we so easily tuck away our relationship - this relationship - and pretend as though we could go on forever without each other?
When I was young and selfless, he used to pull me against his chest and surround me with his arms. I was helpless, completely dependent upon the steel cage he built around me. Tonight, I pull him to my chest. His breath fogs the metal rings in my nipples. He sobs. Without me, he says, life is lonely.
But I know he is just like me. Without me isn't lonely, just as without him isn't lonely. Finality hurts. Finality is a song you've heard but only remember two words of the lyrics. You can't explain it. You can't explain what you remember clearly enough so that another can help you find it again. That last final kiss, the lips you know you'll never feel again, the wet pillowcase, the rush, the anger, the hate, the absolute goodness of being out of control are why you look for it again and again. You know that once the newness of the first lingering kiss wears off, you'll never feel those emotions again until you convince yourself it's the end.
I stand before my hazy bedroom mirror and check off my inventory; a Fuck the World poster, dead flowers in a dirty vase, and tiny strings of incense ash hanging off the bookshelf, dangerously hovering above thick red shag carpet. I unwrap the white towel, dingy and stained from the black dye fading out of my mohawk, and lie down on the bed. He always liked it when I got naked before I called.
"Hello?"
"Come see me tonight," I say into the phone.
"Crys?"
"Come see me."
"Where are you?"
"Back at my mother's."
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
Anxiety awakens in my heart. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to know that I'll only have tonight, but I have to. I need a lump to rise in the back of my throat. I need a pain in my heart that draws up my stomach. I need to feel like I can never have him again. I lie to myself and say this will be the last time.
I go to the mirror. I want him to see me and ache. I pull my hair over my shoulders so the freshly shaven sides of my head are covered. I want to look innocent and helpless - at first. But even under the cover of hair, the rings in my nipples catch the light of the lamp. He'll have to use his imagination.
He'll stop at the park three blocks away. He'll trot down the sidewalk on the north side of the road where there are no streetlamps. He'll hold onto the latch on the gate. He'll push the gate closed and gently lower the latch, without raising a sound or suspicion.
I hear a grunt below my bedroom window when he climbs on top of the iron railing and reaches above the kitchen window. The key slides into the door. The deadbolt locks behind him.
He doesn't say anything when he comes through my bedroom door. He slowly undresses, watching me, searching my face. I smile and he climbs into bed.
Every time with him is new now, despite the routine that brings us together. The moon reflects off his black hairless chest. I kiss it. He buries his nose in my hair, and I chew the end of a dreadlock.
He is so sweet when he cries. A hint of heartbroken-induced wrinkles curl around his eyes and white teeth gnash between beautiful full lips.
I wrap my arms around his chest and feel for the long thin scars on his back, scars put there by me when I was young and selfless. My thumb brushes across the ripples and he grins through the tears, remembering that night at the park, in the backseat of the blue Lincoln, shadows of the trees dancing across my belly. Beautiful, white, perfect teeth in a grin I will never see again.
We don't have sex or make love just yet. We remember emotions. Every sour word ever passed between us lies in the bed. We toss it back and forth. What made those words slip over our tongues? What caused us to separate in anger? How could we so easily tuck away our relationship - this relationship - and pretend as though we could go on forever without each other?
When I was young and selfless, he used to pull me against his chest and surround me with his arms. I was helpless, completely dependent upon the steel cage he built around me. Tonight, I pull him to my chest. His breath fogs the metal rings in my nipples. He sobs. Without me, he says, life is lonely.
But I know he is just like me. Without me isn't lonely, just as without him isn't lonely. Finality hurts. Finality is a song you've heard but only remember two words of the lyrics. You can't explain it. You can't explain what you remember clearly enough so that another can help you find it again. That last final kiss, the lips you know you'll never feel again, the wet pillowcase, the rush, the anger, the hate, the absolute goodness of being out of control are why you look for it again and again. You know that once the newness of the first lingering kiss wears off, you'll never feel those emotions again until you convince yourself it's the end.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Dirt
He lies awake in the morning under a tent he made with the top sheet, listening to the early morning noises.
His father sings while he dresses and hums while he brushes his teeth. The bathroom door creaks open and Sunshine drops the sheet. He curls his toes around the thin material and listens to his father. His father does this every morning - swishes the bathroom door back and forth and says, "I need to fix that creak." But it's forgotten as the day passes, and maybe isn't as noticeable in the afternoon when everyone is up and running and stomping through the house. Early morning noises are crisp and clean, like the line-dried sheet he once again balances on his feet.
Water runs into the sink after his father leaves. Coffee cups clink and silverware tins. His mother isn't quiet like his father. She bangs cabinet doors, pours dog food into the pets' bowl instead of scooping it up like his father does. She brushes her teeth, and never mentions the creak in the door when she leaves the bathroom.
Her feet sound like a basketball being dribbled down a hardwood court when she enters his room. She climbs under the covers and pulls the sheet over their heads before pushing a carob ginseng kiss onto his cheek. They lie under the covers, plucking blackberries out of the little clay bowls his mother bought at an art festival. Juice runs down his finger, and he wipes it on the bed sheet. His mother laughs, rolls over onto her belly, squishes a berry, and draws a sun on the white cotton sheet.
They lay there for a while, drawing pictures on the sheet, until they hear his brother climb off his parents' bed. His mother flings off the sheet, jumps from the bed, and calls for the baby, "Acorn!" She calls the baby Acorn because he's always popping up under foot, but she says that means he will be strong someday.
His mother is full of sayings like that; happy fairies leave wet kisses on the grass at night, and when the maple leaves turn over and show their petticoats, it's going to rain. He doesn't know if she is pulling his leg, or if she is wise, but the grass is always wet in the morning and he can't think of a time when it didn't rain after the leaves turned.
She puts water into a kettle for their oatmeal and places it on the old stove. It doesn't fire by itself anymore so she lights a match and holds it under the kettle. Stove lit, she uses the match to light the candle on the kitchen counter. She does this every morning so his father will stay safe while he's away.
They sit at the table and make faces at each other while they wait for the kettle to whistle. Acorn makes several faces but his favorite one is picking his nose. Mama makes him wash his hands - with soap.
After they eat, they go outside to water the garden. Sometimes, when the sun decides to get warm a bit earlier than usual, Mama holds the water hose up in the air and lets Sunshine and Acorn run under it. The water weighs down Acorn's curls until they stretch long and straight to his waist. Grammy thinks Acorn's hair is too long even when it's all curled up so Mama never does this when Grammy is over.
They sit on the front porch steps after the garden is watered and watch the trucks pass by. Mama pulls her skirt up to her thighs and stretches out her legs. Sunshine glints at her through the sun. The sun turns her hair red and draws out freckles that only dot the right side of her forehead. Acorn sits between her legs, peeling the bark off a stick. Mama wraps his wet hair around her finger and blows on it, setting his curls.
Acorn lets out a yelp and holds up his finger. A splinter. The screen door slams behind Sunshine as he runs into the house to get the jar of drawing salve. He pulls himself onto the counter and stands on his knees. Underneath the herbs hanging upside down in the window, and right next to the jar where tiny salad seeds are sprouting, he finds the pint-size jar of white comfrey salve. He opens the lid and the bitter scent reminds him of autumn, and Mama standing at the stove, stirring melting beeswax in the double boiler.
Mama smears the salve on Acorn's splinter and wraps it with cheesecloth. Sunshine sits next to his brother on the porch swing while Mama makes them all a drink. He keeps his arm around his brother's shoulder, waiting for Acorn's sniffles to stop.
Sometimes he thinks Acorn smells like Mama, like nothing. He presses his nose into Acorn's curls and takes a deep sniff, then he draws a piece of his own straight white hair up to his nose and breathes in.
Daddy says they all smell like dirt and tea tree oil. Every night when he comes home from work, he picks them up and tosses them into the air, incensing the house. "My dirty little hippies," he laughs.
Mama brings them peppermint tea in little earth-toned mugs she bought at an art festival. She presses her bare toes against the concrete and starts the swing. A breeze comes by and picks up their scent. It drifts over the garden and settles into the dirt.
His father sings while he dresses and hums while he brushes his teeth. The bathroom door creaks open and Sunshine drops the sheet. He curls his toes around the thin material and listens to his father. His father does this every morning - swishes the bathroom door back and forth and says, "I need to fix that creak." But it's forgotten as the day passes, and maybe isn't as noticeable in the afternoon when everyone is up and running and stomping through the house. Early morning noises are crisp and clean, like the line-dried sheet he once again balances on his feet.
Water runs into the sink after his father leaves. Coffee cups clink and silverware tins. His mother isn't quiet like his father. She bangs cabinet doors, pours dog food into the pets' bowl instead of scooping it up like his father does. She brushes her teeth, and never mentions the creak in the door when she leaves the bathroom.
Her feet sound like a basketball being dribbled down a hardwood court when she enters his room. She climbs under the covers and pulls the sheet over their heads before pushing a carob ginseng kiss onto his cheek. They lie under the covers, plucking blackberries out of the little clay bowls his mother bought at an art festival. Juice runs down his finger, and he wipes it on the bed sheet. His mother laughs, rolls over onto her belly, squishes a berry, and draws a sun on the white cotton sheet.
They lay there for a while, drawing pictures on the sheet, until they hear his brother climb off his parents' bed. His mother flings off the sheet, jumps from the bed, and calls for the baby, "Acorn!" She calls the baby Acorn because he's always popping up under foot, but she says that means he will be strong someday.
His mother is full of sayings like that; happy fairies leave wet kisses on the grass at night, and when the maple leaves turn over and show their petticoats, it's going to rain. He doesn't know if she is pulling his leg, or if she is wise, but the grass is always wet in the morning and he can't think of a time when it didn't rain after the leaves turned.
She puts water into a kettle for their oatmeal and places it on the old stove. It doesn't fire by itself anymore so she lights a match and holds it under the kettle. Stove lit, she uses the match to light the candle on the kitchen counter. She does this every morning so his father will stay safe while he's away.
They sit at the table and make faces at each other while they wait for the kettle to whistle. Acorn makes several faces but his favorite one is picking his nose. Mama makes him wash his hands - with soap.
After they eat, they go outside to water the garden. Sometimes, when the sun decides to get warm a bit earlier than usual, Mama holds the water hose up in the air and lets Sunshine and Acorn run under it. The water weighs down Acorn's curls until they stretch long and straight to his waist. Grammy thinks Acorn's hair is too long even when it's all curled up so Mama never does this when Grammy is over.
They sit on the front porch steps after the garden is watered and watch the trucks pass by. Mama pulls her skirt up to her thighs and stretches out her legs. Sunshine glints at her through the sun. The sun turns her hair red and draws out freckles that only dot the right side of her forehead. Acorn sits between her legs, peeling the bark off a stick. Mama wraps his wet hair around her finger and blows on it, setting his curls.
Acorn lets out a yelp and holds up his finger. A splinter. The screen door slams behind Sunshine as he runs into the house to get the jar of drawing salve. He pulls himself onto the counter and stands on his knees. Underneath the herbs hanging upside down in the window, and right next to the jar where tiny salad seeds are sprouting, he finds the pint-size jar of white comfrey salve. He opens the lid and the bitter scent reminds him of autumn, and Mama standing at the stove, stirring melting beeswax in the double boiler.
Mama smears the salve on Acorn's splinter and wraps it with cheesecloth. Sunshine sits next to his brother on the porch swing while Mama makes them all a drink. He keeps his arm around his brother's shoulder, waiting for Acorn's sniffles to stop.
Sometimes he thinks Acorn smells like Mama, like nothing. He presses his nose into Acorn's curls and takes a deep sniff, then he draws a piece of his own straight white hair up to his nose and breathes in.
Daddy says they all smell like dirt and tea tree oil. Every night when he comes home from work, he picks them up and tosses them into the air, incensing the house. "My dirty little hippies," he laughs.
Mama brings them peppermint tea in little earth-toned mugs she bought at an art festival. She presses her bare toes against the concrete and starts the swing. A breeze comes by and picks up their scent. It drifts over the garden and settles into the dirt.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Voices
It’s easy to take another’s voice as your own when you feel your own words aren’t good enough, or when your feet can’t find the world’s rhythm, or when everyone around you speaks in rhymes.
I had this idea once that if I listened Whitman’s voice inside my head, I’d be able to say what I mean; it is so easy for me to slide into his head. Maybe he was doing the same thing when he wrote though, and together, we were just dancing the same old dance everyone else danced, and writing the same old words, with the same worn out meanings, that everyone else had written before.
It’s difficult to find your own voice. Sometimes I take a tape recorder on my walks and tell stories or think of words I’ve read that have stuck in my head. Later, when everyone sleeps and the tape turns, I hear someone else’s voice coming out of that black box. She stumbles over words, repeats sentences until they are incoherent thoughts.
They are only my words when they are in black and white, and when there is no sound except the scratching of a pencil, or the tap of a key.
Frank O’Hara wrote, ‘It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so…’, and I try not to use those words. I try not to think his thoughts. I try not to hear his voice inside my head, although every part of me wants to take him by the hand, lead him onto the floor, rest my cheek against the coarse wool in his sweater, and dance the same old dance.
I had this idea once that if I listened Whitman’s voice inside my head, I’d be able to say what I mean; it is so easy for me to slide into his head. Maybe he was doing the same thing when he wrote though, and together, we were just dancing the same old dance everyone else danced, and writing the same old words, with the same worn out meanings, that everyone else had written before.
It’s difficult to find your own voice. Sometimes I take a tape recorder on my walks and tell stories or think of words I’ve read that have stuck in my head. Later, when everyone sleeps and the tape turns, I hear someone else’s voice coming out of that black box. She stumbles over words, repeats sentences until they are incoherent thoughts.
They are only my words when they are in black and white, and when there is no sound except the scratching of a pencil, or the tap of a key.
Frank O’Hara wrote, ‘It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so…’, and I try not to use those words. I try not to think his thoughts. I try not to hear his voice inside my head, although every part of me wants to take him by the hand, lead him onto the floor, rest my cheek against the coarse wool in his sweater, and dance the same old dance.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Breaking Routine
It comes on so slowly, this change in routine. Yet every season I find myself fighting to hang onto habitual tasks. I need another summer morning to pin clothes to the line while still in my nightgown. I need another autumn afternoon to sit on the porch and listen to dry leaves skitter down the road. I need another winter morning with shoes overturned and toasting on the heat vents.
When it's a couple of weeks into spring before I notice they're gone, I know something has happened to me. On Monday morning I go to the back door to put on my shoes, and they aren't there. One morning, I've forgotten exactly which one, I woke up with the sun warming the bed and a foot hanging out from under the covers to cool, and left it bare.
Spring came while I was sleeping, without a fight, without an upset in routine, without a yearning for twenty more minutes under an old warm quilt. Spring came, and I changed with its first dewy breath.
It's the subtlety, the unobserved abrupt change, that inspires me; always controlled, conforming to nonconformity, and now a foot finding its way out of the bedsheets, willing to step on a piece of glass or a rusty nail if it means freedom from restraint, seems to have changed it all.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Spring
Today is the kind of day I like. The yard is mowed. The house is clean. The baby is napping. The windows are open. The plants get to sit in the outside.
It's spring at its finest.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Exercise: Personal Ritual
Long before she bought her first pair of fishnets and rolled down the waistband on her skirts to raise the hemline, there was a nakedness in her eyes like swollen blackberries on a leaf-barren vine.
She looked for it in other people, touching strangers' arms in passing to lure a glance and thumbing the brows over young eyes, soggy with whiskey, until one night there was a wicked dance between the conversationalists in her head that lasted well into morning.
Her ugliness was unique.
She wore it in embarrassment, like stained panties, discreetly, always glimpsing behind to ensure invisibility. She tried to calm the pain by holding in her stomach. Jutted hipbones, concaved stomach, fleshless between her thighs, she fumbled around like a skeleton, a skeleton with bulging ugly eyes.
She looked for it in other people, touching strangers' arms in passing to lure a glance and thumbing the brows over young eyes, soggy with whiskey, until one night there was a wicked dance between the conversationalists in her head that lasted well into morning.
Her ugliness was unique.
She wore it in embarrassment, like stained panties, discreetly, always glimpsing behind to ensure invisibility. She tried to calm the pain by holding in her stomach. Jutted hipbones, concaved stomach, fleshless between her thighs, she fumbled around like a skeleton, a skeleton with bulging ugly eyes.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Gypsy Rondo
In the front room, three feet from the wall, the polyurethane coating has worn off the hardwood floor - not a large spot, just about the size of a child’s heel. A piano once sat there, a black grand with stiff keys and gold etching above the middle ‘C’. Kimball.
Twenty years ago, a girl sat behind the piano every afternoon for two hours; the first hour, required studies; the second hour, free play. Sometimes she would turn the knob on the timer, playing Hannon finger exercises with one hand to cover the click-click-clicking as she inched the dial towards the second hour.
She played Haydn’s Gypsy Rondo until her fingers held the memory, and her mind was able to wander. On quiet afternoons, she reflected upon her morning in the woods - the creek water slowly rinsing the bank, the clouds chasing each other like lovers amputated at the hip - and kept a mindful tempo. On afternoons when contentment filled the house, she listened for the bobbing of the needle on her mother’s sewing machine and kept a steady rhythm.
But most days, she leaned into the piano, back rigid, shoulders hunched, and thumped the keys until her mother’s screaming rampage was deflected from her siblings. Her mother would charge into the large room where the fireplace was never lit because it might leave soot on the furniture, upon which no one was allowed to sit. She would close the drapes that framed the large, welcoming picture windows, which opened up to a world the girl wasn’t allowed to experience.
She would stand next to the piano, salmon-colored cheeks huffing, fingers knotting themselves at her waist, and the girl would say, “I just want to play for you. Sit down. Sit down on the furniture I will never sit upon. Look through the windows at the world I will never experience. Listen.”
And she would watch the girl’s fingers cross and her wrists slightly turn towards the ceiling, while from memory she began a new song. Her mother would back away towards the Victorian style loveseat with rose-colored velour fabric, and stare out the picture window towards the highway which led to places she should never allow her daughter to go.
The girl would press her heel into the hardwood floor, her fingers keeping a slow, steady, comforting tempo while her heart furiously pounded ‘The Dance of the Demon’.
Twenty years ago, a girl sat behind the piano every afternoon for two hours; the first hour, required studies; the second hour, free play. Sometimes she would turn the knob on the timer, playing Hannon finger exercises with one hand to cover the click-click-clicking as she inched the dial towards the second hour.
She played Haydn’s Gypsy Rondo until her fingers held the memory, and her mind was able to wander. On quiet afternoons, she reflected upon her morning in the woods - the creek water slowly rinsing the bank, the clouds chasing each other like lovers amputated at the hip - and kept a mindful tempo. On afternoons when contentment filled the house, she listened for the bobbing of the needle on her mother’s sewing machine and kept a steady rhythm.
But most days, she leaned into the piano, back rigid, shoulders hunched, and thumped the keys until her mother’s screaming rampage was deflected from her siblings. Her mother would charge into the large room where the fireplace was never lit because it might leave soot on the furniture, upon which no one was allowed to sit. She would close the drapes that framed the large, welcoming picture windows, which opened up to a world the girl wasn’t allowed to experience.
She would stand next to the piano, salmon-colored cheeks huffing, fingers knotting themselves at her waist, and the girl would say, “I just want to play for you. Sit down. Sit down on the furniture I will never sit upon. Look through the windows at the world I will never experience. Listen.”
And she would watch the girl’s fingers cross and her wrists slightly turn towards the ceiling, while from memory she began a new song. Her mother would back away towards the Victorian style loveseat with rose-colored velour fabric, and stare out the picture window towards the highway which led to places she should never allow her daughter to go.
The girl would press her heel into the hardwood floor, her fingers keeping a slow, steady, comforting tempo while her heart furiously pounded ‘The Dance of the Demon’.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
No Title
I imagine the baby I killed had red hair. I can't say for certain since I was nineteen, and that was a long time ago. I only saw him on the monitor at the abortion clinic, and I didn't want to embarrass either of us by staring.
Heath had red hair with ends that were split and curled from being whipped around in the wind. Always once, during every motorcycle ride through the back roads, a lock of hair would catch the corner of my mouth. I'd spit it out and laugh in his ear, and we'd ride.
Five years after I left him, I confessed my sin on a short line next to the question 'Is the your first pregnancy?' Sitting in the doctor's office, watching the receptionist eye The Price is Right while waiting for a copy of my insurance card to slide out of the printer, I felt certain that question was one of those 'true or false' questions; otherwise, the line would have been longer.
For the next six months, people I didn't know rubbed my swollen belly and asked if the baby was my first. I smiled, asked them if they could feel the baby kicking, and lied like the Virgin Mary to save myself.
I imagine the baby I killed had red hair like Heath’s other baby. I saw her at Christmas one year. His mother had put a bow in her long red curls. She jumped off the curb outside the mall, and the wind picked up a lock of her hair, whipping it over her shoulder. I stood at the corner, holding hands with my blond headed son, and watched them ride away.
Heath had red hair with ends that were split and curled from being whipped around in the wind. Always once, during every motorcycle ride through the back roads, a lock of hair would catch the corner of my mouth. I'd spit it out and laugh in his ear, and we'd ride.
Five years after I left him, I confessed my sin on a short line next to the question 'Is the your first pregnancy?' Sitting in the doctor's office, watching the receptionist eye The Price is Right while waiting for a copy of my insurance card to slide out of the printer, I felt certain that question was one of those 'true or false' questions; otherwise, the line would have been longer.
For the next six months, people I didn't know rubbed my swollen belly and asked if the baby was my first. I smiled, asked them if they could feel the baby kicking, and lied like the Virgin Mary to save myself.
I imagine the baby I killed had red hair like Heath’s other baby. I saw her at Christmas one year. His mother had put a bow in her long red curls. She jumped off the curb outside the mall, and the wind picked up a lock of her hair, whipping it over her shoulder. I stood at the corner, holding hands with my blond headed son, and watched them ride away.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Pleasure
Pleasure, a thought, then the slow drape of my leg over his belly. In the morning, physical pleasure isn't misused or attached to emotions charged by time, but passes lazily between us.
We work in the garden throughout the afternoon. Side by side, we pull weeds and pinch herbs, speak of bills or the kids. Because of love, because of time, we spend the rest of the day holding the morning under our tongues.
We work in the garden throughout the afternoon. Side by side, we pull weeds and pinch herbs, speak of bills or the kids. Because of love, because of time, we spend the rest of the day holding the morning under our tongues.
The Heart of the Woods
At Harmonie State Park, everything green stretches its long restless limbs towards the orange morning sun.
I inch down the backside of Sycamore Ridge. Behind me, the leaves rise up delicately, like the fuzz on the arch of a woman's back after a hot shower. I veer through the belly of the woods until moss mounts the trees and dips its roots into the gray bark.
It's barely April, two weeks before the tiny morel skulls will sidle through the leaves, and the thieves have already come to poach her. The chest of the woods has been ripped open, leaves swept aside into great piles, exposing her heart. They come to steal life but they never leave death, only untidiness.
I climb onto a low hanging branch, sit on her shoulder, and drink my coffee while looking into the sun. Later, I will consider whether or not to straighten her up.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Lost
I know what I’ve done wrong. You aren’t supposed to end a sentence with the word be. I have to be a mother or not. I have to be a thinker or not. I have to be a worker or not. I have to be a lover or not. It isn’t proper to just be.
I thought I was a seeker, or maybe that’s just what I wanted to believe. Now I know I was born to lose the world inside myself, and that’s the problem. The world doesn’t want to be lost. People strive to be found. There is no stability in not knowing what to do. There is no comfort in waiting. All around me, problems, complaints, urgencies.
I open the windows when the tractors hit the field, and spring’s powdery coat wraps around town, leaving golden dunes to gather in the creases of the bedsheets. I stand in the window, breathing in the grit. A nuisance, my neighbors say, after bragging about finding fresh corn on the cob for twenty-five cents an ear.
It’s difficult to believe I’m wrong just because my thoughts aren’t clustered in the collective, but the alternative is frightening.
I thought I was a seeker, or maybe that’s just what I wanted to believe. Now I know I was born to lose the world inside myself, and that’s the problem. The world doesn’t want to be lost. People strive to be found. There is no stability in not knowing what to do. There is no comfort in waiting. All around me, problems, complaints, urgencies.
I open the windows when the tractors hit the field, and spring’s powdery coat wraps around town, leaving golden dunes to gather in the creases of the bedsheets. I stand in the window, breathing in the grit. A nuisance, my neighbors say, after bragging about finding fresh corn on the cob for twenty-five cents an ear.
It’s difficult to believe I’m wrong just because my thoughts aren’t clustered in the collective, but the alternative is frightening.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Shallow Breath
I lost my footing yesterday, and I thought this is it. This is how I will be found - sprawled on my back, skull denting the ground, looking up at the grackles flying overhead like they do everyday.
My balance fought back just in time, as always, and gripped the earth. I survived with only a sore muscle in my back, one that hadn't been used in a while.
Later, I ground the muscle into the cold rim on the claw foot tub and massaged the lump under my skin, slightly embarrassed by the fading agility of youth. There had been nothing foreseen to cause the unsteadiness; no branch on the ground to stumble upon; no stripped spiky corn stalk to grab hold of my skirt, only the earth changing expressions beneath me.
My balance fought back just in time, as always, and gripped the earth. I survived with only a sore muscle in my back, one that hadn't been used in a while.
Later, I ground the muscle into the cold rim on the claw foot tub and massaged the lump under my skin, slightly embarrassed by the fading agility of youth. There had been nothing foreseen to cause the unsteadiness; no branch on the ground to stumble upon; no stripped spiky corn stalk to grab hold of my skirt, only the earth changing expressions beneath me.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Identity
She withdraws from her name, wondering why, as a child, she wrote it on everything she owned - black magic marker on a backpack, silver paint pen on a leather jacket, the image etched into her flesh by a man named Shaker. There aren't statues of cats, at least, posed and lined up on wooden shelves hanging on the wall. She never would have gone that far.
She forgot how it started. Maybe a joke or a boyfriend's observation about the shape of her eyes? It wasn't long after she heard the name in the hallways that she began painting her eyes thick and black, and started wearing stockings that left red crisscross patterns on her knees.
Then the nights came when her mother was gone, and her stepfather played solitaire next to a row of beer cans at the kitchen table, and she sat behind the locked door of her walk-in closest, taping pictures to the wall that had been drawn by boys with steady hands. Sometimes she would stand under the bare bulb, lick her finger, and smudge the lines until fine bits of gray paper peeled up, just to ease the time away.
She liked the name mixed with liquor in the mouths of sweaty boys, but even more when they screamed it through thin gaping lips. Naked, except for their tight black jeans and studded belts, they cursed her name until they forgot it, all of them.
It seemed fitting, she thought one day, while painting her eyes beneath the glow of a bare bulb in the dressing room, that the DJ should call out the name whispered in love so many times but soon forgotten.
She forgot how it started. Maybe a joke or a boyfriend's observation about the shape of her eyes? It wasn't long after she heard the name in the hallways that she began painting her eyes thick and black, and started wearing stockings that left red crisscross patterns on her knees.
Then the nights came when her mother was gone, and her stepfather played solitaire next to a row of beer cans at the kitchen table, and she sat behind the locked door of her walk-in closest, taping pictures to the wall that had been drawn by boys with steady hands. Sometimes she would stand under the bare bulb, lick her finger, and smudge the lines until fine bits of gray paper peeled up, just to ease the time away.
She liked the name mixed with liquor in the mouths of sweaty boys, but even more when they screamed it through thin gaping lips. Naked, except for their tight black jeans and studded belts, they cursed her name until they forgot it, all of them.
It seemed fitting, she thought one day, while painting her eyes beneath the glow of a bare bulb in the dressing room, that the DJ should call out the name whispered in love so many times but soon forgotten.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
A Lonely Moment
We hear him skulking in the backyard. He lingers over the snapped branch, and I imagine his eyes brittling like ice. We don't know when he will speak so we stand in the backyard with our fingers entwined, listening to his heavy breathing and the rain misting the treetops.
It occurs to me that I haven't been this still for a very long time, and I think if I could reach out and touch them both, I could mold this moment like a piece of jewelry to wear a groove around my finger. Then the rain comes down hard and soaks the trees until they are black and wet like my insides, and I know I have to move or shake or let go of his hand.
We walk up the hill together, one of them on each side of me, and I want us to keep walking past the parked cars outside the barhouse, cross the road, and stop for a moment at the pond. There, we could stand beside each other and stare at our distorted reflections as the rain comes down and laughter leaks through the windows in the bar. We might be happy, the three of us, gawking at the smiling faces in the water. I know I would.
Instead, we go inside and sit at a round table. They talk about the noise on the tin roof, and I buy the three of us double shots of whiskey. I should feel caught or busted but I don't.
The waitress brings a shot of Jagermeister, compliments of the gentleman at the bar.
They shake their heads as I drink it down. Cold, black, and wet, it coats my throat, feeling like victory inside.
Then there's just us, the empty shot glasses, the last of the acorns pouncing on the tin roof, and the man patting the stool next to him at the bar.
It occurs to me that I haven't been this still for a very long time, and I think if I could reach out and touch them both, I could mold this moment like a piece of jewelry to wear a groove around my finger. Then the rain comes down hard and soaks the trees until they are black and wet like my insides, and I know I have to move or shake or let go of his hand.
We walk up the hill together, one of them on each side of me, and I want us to keep walking past the parked cars outside the barhouse, cross the road, and stop for a moment at the pond. There, we could stand beside each other and stare at our distorted reflections as the rain comes down and laughter leaks through the windows in the bar. We might be happy, the three of us, gawking at the smiling faces in the water. I know I would.
Instead, we go inside and sit at a round table. They talk about the noise on the tin roof, and I buy the three of us double shots of whiskey. I should feel caught or busted but I don't.
The waitress brings a shot of Jagermeister, compliments of the gentleman at the bar.
They shake their heads as I drink it down. Cold, black, and wet, it coats my throat, feeling like victory inside.
Then there's just us, the empty shot glasses, the last of the acorns pouncing on the tin roof, and the man patting the stool next to him at the bar.
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