You said my name first,
but like so many times before,
my name was someone else's name,
my skin, someone else's skin,
my eyes, certainly my eyes,
belonged to someone else.
You said my name again,
and here I noticed my failure
to move your name from my brain,
yes, my brain to my mouth, and then my lips.
Perhaps you said my name a third time,
and I could only call you--well--you,
but it wasn't you then either.
Even now I can't help but imagine
it was you,
and it was me,
and it was my hand on your shoulder,
and it was we who walked out of the room
together.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Preservation
Oh to be a myriad of brush strokes,
A spectrum of color!
Oh to be the sparkle in her eye,
the blush upon her lips,
the corner of her smile.
I would be forever in love,
never hurt, always hugged by a golden frame,
surrounded by a cloudless sky,
with fresh grass blades tickling my feet.
But ah, never to be painted,
trapped with only a sight of my lover,
never any closer to him than the day he painted me,
never hugged by his arms,
never spoken to by his lips,
never kissed.
A spectrum of color!
Oh to be the sparkle in her eye,
the blush upon her lips,
the corner of her smile.
I would be forever in love,
never hurt, always hugged by a golden frame,
surrounded by a cloudless sky,
with fresh grass blades tickling my feet.
But ah, never to be painted,
trapped with only a sight of my lover,
never any closer to him than the day he painted me,
never hugged by his arms,
never spoken to by his lips,
never kissed.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Time is Now
Today I'm fashioning you a straight jacket
and tossing you in a padded room.
I'm locking ten padlocks,
and melting down the keys.
I won't make those keys into necklaces, earrings, or bracelets,
I won't wear them to remember you by,
I'll make them into coins,
and spend them,
and spend them fast.
and tossing you in a padded room.
I'm locking ten padlocks,
and melting down the keys.
I won't make those keys into necklaces, earrings, or bracelets,
I won't wear them to remember you by,
I'll make them into coins,
and spend them,
and spend them fast.
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Cat in the Hospital Room
The cat's tail swished to the beat of the heart monitor. It moved like a pendulum on Prozac. Meanwhile the beat on the monitor moved rigidly, like an iceberg melting. Rather than watch the monitor, the cat's gaze focused on the face before him. He perched himself on the man's belly, so he could feel its rise and fall. Each movement of the man seemed more forced with each tick of the clock.
That ticking continued for hours, but few of the hospital staff came in, and if they did, they didn't notice the cat. One nurse even leaned over the cat to replaced one of the IV bags. That feline creature didn't purr. It didn't meow. The cat only swished his tail, idly, as if it waited for something. His ginger fur contrasted sharply with the blue sheets, but the nurses and CNAs acted as if he belonged to the decor. He didn't take notice of the machine, nor the IVs, nor the breathing machine nor the feeding tube.
More hours past, and the belly ceased to rise and fall. The cat stretched, and stood up, before walking toward the patient's chest. He circled, and lied down again, with his head pillowed against the man's heart. From the distance the cat would seem to sleep, but an up-close view would show his open eyes. His ear listened for the familiar beat, which grew softer and slower with each tick of the clock.
No visitors came to see the old man. One nurse remarked that his friends and family had long since moved on. This man had lived in a nearby nursing home for the past few years, and generally kept to himself. He read the local newspaper every day in the morning. After lunch he would play a game of chess without a word. No one at the nursing home remembered what his voice sounded like, for no one had heard him speak since his first day there. When this man fell ill, the nursing home staff only knew because his chess opponent had reported him missing.
The doctor knew his time would be soon, but he could make it sooner if the man were able to ask for it. No one in the nursing home knew if he had a living will. While the man had an address book, it only had one entry, with a first name alone. It read: Mack. One nurse, while going through his effects, found a smudged paw print below the name.
Then the time came for the old man. With a feeble hand he caressed the cat, and the cat purred for the first time that lonely afternoon. His hand scratched Mack behind the ears, and he smiled when Mack purred louder.
"It's time for me to go, isn't it Macky?"
The cat continued to purr, watching the pulse in the man's throat.
"I suppose it is. Take me home, Macky. Please." His voice died away, and the hand sank to his side. Beat by beat his pulse sank into his throat until Mack couldn't see it anymore. The monitor flat-lined, and the man's skin fell still. Waxy coating covered the skin as it lost its warm color.
Mack sniffed, shaking his head to rid his nostrils of the odor. He walked up the body's chest, and grabbed a chain from the neck with his teeth. The chain snapped right off, a marble-sized orb dangling on the end. With a drop and a leap, Mack landed on the window sill without looking back. A second later a doctor came in, and found a room empty save for all the instruments and a body.
That ticking continued for hours, but few of the hospital staff came in, and if they did, they didn't notice the cat. One nurse even leaned over the cat to replaced one of the IV bags. That feline creature didn't purr. It didn't meow. The cat only swished his tail, idly, as if it waited for something. His ginger fur contrasted sharply with the blue sheets, but the nurses and CNAs acted as if he belonged to the decor. He didn't take notice of the machine, nor the IVs, nor the breathing machine nor the feeding tube.
More hours past, and the belly ceased to rise and fall. The cat stretched, and stood up, before walking toward the patient's chest. He circled, and lied down again, with his head pillowed against the man's heart. From the distance the cat would seem to sleep, but an up-close view would show his open eyes. His ear listened for the familiar beat, which grew softer and slower with each tick of the clock.
No visitors came to see the old man. One nurse remarked that his friends and family had long since moved on. This man had lived in a nearby nursing home for the past few years, and generally kept to himself. He read the local newspaper every day in the morning. After lunch he would play a game of chess without a word. No one at the nursing home remembered what his voice sounded like, for no one had heard him speak since his first day there. When this man fell ill, the nursing home staff only knew because his chess opponent had reported him missing.
The doctor knew his time would be soon, but he could make it sooner if the man were able to ask for it. No one in the nursing home knew if he had a living will. While the man had an address book, it only had one entry, with a first name alone. It read: Mack. One nurse, while going through his effects, found a smudged paw print below the name.
Then the time came for the old man. With a feeble hand he caressed the cat, and the cat purred for the first time that lonely afternoon. His hand scratched Mack behind the ears, and he smiled when Mack purred louder.
"It's time for me to go, isn't it Macky?"
The cat continued to purr, watching the pulse in the man's throat.
"I suppose it is. Take me home, Macky. Please." His voice died away, and the hand sank to his side. Beat by beat his pulse sank into his throat until Mack couldn't see it anymore. The monitor flat-lined, and the man's skin fell still. Waxy coating covered the skin as it lost its warm color.
Mack sniffed, shaking his head to rid his nostrils of the odor. He walked up the body's chest, and grabbed a chain from the neck with his teeth. The chain snapped right off, a marble-sized orb dangling on the end. With a drop and a leap, Mack landed on the window sill without looking back. A second later a doctor came in, and found a room empty save for all the instruments and a body.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Inspiration vs. Inception
You know why I'm sad?
I'm sad because I haven't forgotten
how to take the elevator down to level 18,
to face my fear every chance I get,
to talk to her while she sharpens knives.
Meanwhile I have a close friend close by,
to help my shoot
my fear and guilt and shame and anger and regret before
she stabs me in the heart.
My friend, before she leaves,
is there to tell me to go back,
to wake up,
to move on.
I'm sad because I haven't forgotten
how to take the elevator down to level 18,
to face my fear every chance I get,
to talk to her while she sharpens knives.
Meanwhile I have a close friend close by,
to help my shoot
my fear and guilt and shame and anger and regret before
she stabs me in the heart.
My friend, before she leaves,
is there to tell me to go back,
to wake up,
to move on.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Entrance Cue
My muse is like a migraine.
Sometimes he comes with no warning,
pulling my head down like an anvil.
Other times he comes slowly,
until the story is pounding my mind,
waiting for a chance to burst out
like a supernova time bomb.
Sometimes he comes with no warning,
pulling my head down like an anvil.
Other times he comes slowly,
until the story is pounding my mind,
waiting for a chance to burst out
like a supernova time bomb.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Pleasant Company
Lucy set out dishes for teacups and tarts. A paint-stained apron graced her pink dress. She kept spoons separate from forks with butter knives. Checking her princess watch constantly, Lucy minded the minute hand. When it passed from one to two, she would have to go fetch the tea.
The guests! Lucy hurried to let them in. Her feet pattered against the stone patio as she made her way to the door.
"Mr. Bearsworth, I'm so glad you could make it." She carried in a stout, creature who came up to her knee.
"Did your wife make it?" Lucy helped him to his chair. "Splendid!" She followed with helping his wife to the next seat. Mrs. Bearsworth had softer fur and a fairer complexion, along with pearl dangling from her ears.
"Thank you both for coming." Lucy smiled, and her eyes wandered back to her watch. She gasped, and flurried to back door. "I'll be right back. The tea! I hope it's not ruined."
Pots and pans met with the kitchen floor. "Ah, there it is." One oven mitt on each hand, Lucy carefully set the teapot onto a tray and carried both outside.
She paused, the tray quivering in her hand. "Where's Buxley? He said he'd come." The corners of her lips dipped into a frown. Neither of the Bearsworths said much about it. Despite their permanent smiles, Lucy found them rather dull. Sighing, she set the tray on the table.
"I suppose we should begin." Buxley still didn't show. Lucy poured each of them a cup of tea, balancing the steamless teapot in her hands . In fact, the tea looked suspiciously like apple juice, but the Bearsworths wouldn't know differently.
Lucy sat down, putting the oven mitts down. She reached for her tea cup, and daintily sipped from it. The fields behind her house seemed even more empty this afternoon.
"How are the relatives? Oh, wonderful." The longer they chatted, the harder Lucy worked to sound entertained. The Bearsworth's had little to say.
Reaching for a tart, Lucy's elbow knocked one of the mitts to the ground. "Oops. Excuse me." She turned slightly to pick it up, and her head bumped into a large mass. The smell of musky fur enveloped her nose, and the hairs themselves had not been washed in some time. Lucy tilted her head back so she could see the rest. Her eyes looked at his belly, his fur-covered chest, up his neck, to a firm jaw and sharp teeth. Two yellow eyes looked back at her.
"Lucy."
She swallowed, smiling. "Buxley! I was worried you wouldn't make it!"
"You started without me." His claws grasped the back of the empty chair, tilting it back and forth like cardboard. He sat on stone instead. Buxley picked up the entire tea cup between his thumb and forefinger, the claws scratching against the porcelain.
"You were ten minutes late."
"I was?" He glanced at the bulk of his arm, as if he expected to find a timepiece there. "Lost track of time."
The guests! Lucy hurried to let them in. Her feet pattered against the stone patio as she made her way to the door.
"Mr. Bearsworth, I'm so glad you could make it." She carried in a stout, creature who came up to her knee.
"Did your wife make it?" Lucy helped him to his chair. "Splendid!" She followed with helping his wife to the next seat. Mrs. Bearsworth had softer fur and a fairer complexion, along with pearl dangling from her ears.
"Thank you both for coming." Lucy smiled, and her eyes wandered back to her watch. She gasped, and flurried to back door. "I'll be right back. The tea! I hope it's not ruined."
Pots and pans met with the kitchen floor. "Ah, there it is." One oven mitt on each hand, Lucy carefully set the teapot onto a tray and carried both outside.
She paused, the tray quivering in her hand. "Where's Buxley? He said he'd come." The corners of her lips dipped into a frown. Neither of the Bearsworths said much about it. Despite their permanent smiles, Lucy found them rather dull. Sighing, she set the tray on the table.
"I suppose we should begin." Buxley still didn't show. Lucy poured each of them a cup of tea, balancing the steamless teapot in her hands . In fact, the tea looked suspiciously like apple juice, but the Bearsworths wouldn't know differently.
Lucy sat down, putting the oven mitts down. She reached for her tea cup, and daintily sipped from it. The fields behind her house seemed even more empty this afternoon.
"How are the relatives? Oh, wonderful." The longer they chatted, the harder Lucy worked to sound entertained. The Bearsworth's had little to say.
Reaching for a tart, Lucy's elbow knocked one of the mitts to the ground. "Oops. Excuse me." She turned slightly to pick it up, and her head bumped into a large mass. The smell of musky fur enveloped her nose, and the hairs themselves had not been washed in some time. Lucy tilted her head back so she could see the rest. Her eyes looked at his belly, his fur-covered chest, up his neck, to a firm jaw and sharp teeth. Two yellow eyes looked back at her.
"Lucy."
She swallowed, smiling. "Buxley! I was worried you wouldn't make it!"
"You started without me." His claws grasped the back of the empty chair, tilting it back and forth like cardboard. He sat on stone instead. Buxley picked up the entire tea cup between his thumb and forefinger, the claws scratching against the porcelain.
"You were ten minutes late."
"I was?" He glanced at the bulk of his arm, as if he expected to find a timepiece there. "Lost track of time."
Monday, December 6, 2010
Bridges
Between us sits a river,
too deep to walk across,
and too polluted to swim in.
________________________
In the waking world,
the best I've had of you is fleeting glances,
Impressions murky as Willamette water.
Even in dreams,
you've called me by my childhood best friend's name,
and you're as distant as she.
________________________
Only two bridges across the river can we drive on,
neither allow two directions of traffic to see each other.
The only bridge we saw each other on was pedestrian,
with your family witnessing our every glance.
_______________________
Our paths cross often, but never meet,
never join.
too deep to walk across,
and too polluted to swim in.
________________________
In the waking world,
the best I've had of you is fleeting glances,
Impressions murky as Willamette water.
Even in dreams,
you've called me by my childhood best friend's name,
and you're as distant as she.
________________________
Only two bridges across the river can we drive on,
neither allow two directions of traffic to see each other.
The only bridge we saw each other on was pedestrian,
with your family witnessing our every glance.
_______________________
Our paths cross often, but never meet,
never join.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Coffee Shop Jungle.
The clock read 8:35 a.m. A young woman dinged through the front door and marched straight for the counter. Her bleary eyes scanned the menu as she clutched her laptop bag and her purse. She slid her bag haphazardly to the floor. "Small white mocha, add caramel."
Digging into her pocket rather than her purse, the woman pulled out the exact amount of change, in two bills, four quarters, and a myriad of nickels and dimes.
The barista quirked an eyebrow, hesitating before pushing the correct buttons. A pointed look from the young woman made her continue.
"Oh, $3.35 then."
8:36 a.m. Putting one foot in front of the other, the woman moved from the ordering counter to the recieving one. She opened and closed her right-hand fingers and shrugged her shoulder before her head snapped back in the general direction of her laptop case. The woman sighed, dragging her body back to it, picking it up, and bringing it back with her.
8:37 a.m. "Small caramel white mocha." The barista plopped the drink on the counter, dunking a plastic straw inside.
The young woman, carried her drink and her laptop bag, and her purse to a table in the far corner, setting her drink down carefully as her purse and laptop threatened to fall down her arms. Then she picked up her laptop back, set it down on her chair, and pulled out her laptop, set it on the table, and opened it, before turning it on.
8.38 a.m. She siiiipped her drink, and heard the door chime at the same time as her operating system. A young man walked through the door, with a book in one hand and his wallet in the other. Her eyes followed his feet, then her chin, and then her head. The man turned his head and the women's head turned back to her screen like the two chins were attached on a taught string.
Digging into her pocket rather than her purse, the woman pulled out the exact amount of change, in two bills, four quarters, and a myriad of nickels and dimes.
The barista quirked an eyebrow, hesitating before pushing the correct buttons. A pointed look from the young woman made her continue.
"Oh, $3.35 then."
8:36 a.m. Putting one foot in front of the other, the woman moved from the ordering counter to the recieving one. She opened and closed her right-hand fingers and shrugged her shoulder before her head snapped back in the general direction of her laptop case. The woman sighed, dragging her body back to it, picking it up, and bringing it back with her.
8:37 a.m. "Small caramel white mocha." The barista plopped the drink on the counter, dunking a plastic straw inside.
The young woman, carried her drink and her laptop bag, and her purse to a table in the far corner, setting her drink down carefully as her purse and laptop threatened to fall down her arms. Then she picked up her laptop back, set it down on her chair, and pulled out her laptop, set it on the table, and opened it, before turning it on.
8.38 a.m. She siiiipped her drink, and heard the door chime at the same time as her operating system. A young man walked through the door, with a book in one hand and his wallet in the other. Her eyes followed his feet, then her chin, and then her head. The man turned his head and the women's head turned back to her screen like the two chins were attached on a taught string.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wishing well and not so well
Once I wished you were gone,
So I could write.
And now you are gone
And the floors echo
where your feet once fell,
Slow and groaning
"You got your wish.
You got your wish."
So I could write.
And now you are gone
And the floors echo
where your feet once fell,
Slow and groaning
"You got your wish.
You got your wish."
Monday, November 15, 2010
Defining a Man
Why must a man skip the shower,
and then scratch his butt, and belch?
Why must he smile as he kills the moment,
thrashing it with his hairy hands?
Why must he want a body and not a heart?
Why must a man want a bruised cheek, a broken nose,
and widened eyes?
When he can have the hold that makes him
whole.
and then scratch his butt, and belch?
Why must he smile as he kills the moment,
thrashing it with his hairy hands?
Why must he want a body and not a heart?
Why must a man want a bruised cheek, a broken nose,
and widened eyes?
When he can have the hold that makes him
whole.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Four Corners
The four of them sat in a lopsided square of chairs. The rest of the chairs were stacked in a corner of the classroom, and the tables were pushed to one side. Sally avoided eye contact, frequently fiddling with a corner of her skirt. John tapped a pencil on his knee, looking at the floor, sighing every once in a while. Rose looked at the door, wishing it wasn't locked. Thomas couldn't stop staring at the gun sitting on the nearest table.
"Should we draw straws?" John began, his words slushing through the thick silence like slick boots in a swamp.
"Do we even have any straws?" Sally spat, narrowing her eyes.
Thomas' eyes finally shifted to the circle. "We could flip a coin. Or play rock, paper, scissors."
Rose bit her lip, not removing her eyes from the exit. "I don't think we should decide this by chance." She blurted out the words as she dragged a foot from the back legs of her chair to the front.
"Then how should we decide?" Thomas glanced at her.
"By who's oldest." Rose glanced between them.
"What? No. Then It'll be me." John said with wide eyes.
"You sure?" Sally asked.
"I'm 38. You?"
Sally huffed. "A woman never reveals her age."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "Look, we have to decide tonight. I say we should do it by who has the least to lose."
John cleared his throat. "I have a wife, three kids, a house, and a dog."
"I have a classroom full of children and a very important trip next month." Sally shifted in her chair, crossing one knee over the other and adjusting her skirt.
"I just have my daughter and my credit card debt." Thomas swallowed, running a head through his hair. "We don't even have health insurance." Then Rose realized how worn his overalls looked in the moonlight in the windows.
The three of them glanced at Rose, who had receded farther from the square with each beat. Sally coughed, giving Rose a pointed look. "I have a new job." Rose mumbled, her eyes not rising from the bottom of her sockets.
"Oh, well, we don't have to decide by that." John said.
"Right." Sally replied, chewing her lip.
Thomas just watched Rose, his eyes narrowing. They weren't any closer to deciding, except him. It would be so much easier just to shoot her. She didn't have as much to lose as the rest of them. He could just imagine it.
~~
Picking up the gun, Thomas looked her in the eye. He looked passed the gray in her eyes, to the chilling fear behind her pupils. Thomas would make her feel better. He would wipe away her dread. She wouldn't even feel it. Just click off the safety, pull the trigger, and hold the gun as the blast kicked him back.
What would they find on her when it was said and done? Would they even hesitate, or would they flee out the door? What would be in her wallet? Did she have any family? A brother, or parents who disowned her?
~~
Thomas stood up and picked up the gun. It felt cold in his hands.
"Should we draw straws?" John began, his words slushing through the thick silence like slick boots in a swamp.
"Do we even have any straws?" Sally spat, narrowing her eyes.
Thomas' eyes finally shifted to the circle. "We could flip a coin. Or play rock, paper, scissors."
Rose bit her lip, not removing her eyes from the exit. "I don't think we should decide this by chance." She blurted out the words as she dragged a foot from the back legs of her chair to the front.
"Then how should we decide?" Thomas glanced at her.
"By who's oldest." Rose glanced between them.
"What? No. Then It'll be me." John said with wide eyes.
"You sure?" Sally asked.
"I'm 38. You?"
Sally huffed. "A woman never reveals her age."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "Look, we have to decide tonight. I say we should do it by who has the least to lose."
John cleared his throat. "I have a wife, three kids, a house, and a dog."
"I have a classroom full of children and a very important trip next month." Sally shifted in her chair, crossing one knee over the other and adjusting her skirt.
"I just have my daughter and my credit card debt." Thomas swallowed, running a head through his hair. "We don't even have health insurance." Then Rose realized how worn his overalls looked in the moonlight in the windows.
The three of them glanced at Rose, who had receded farther from the square with each beat. Sally coughed, giving Rose a pointed look. "I have a new job." Rose mumbled, her eyes not rising from the bottom of her sockets.
"Oh, well, we don't have to decide by that." John said.
"Right." Sally replied, chewing her lip.
Thomas just watched Rose, his eyes narrowing. They weren't any closer to deciding, except him. It would be so much easier just to shoot her. She didn't have as much to lose as the rest of them. He could just imagine it.
~~
Picking up the gun, Thomas looked her in the eye. He looked passed the gray in her eyes, to the chilling fear behind her pupils. Thomas would make her feel better. He would wipe away her dread. She wouldn't even feel it. Just click off the safety, pull the trigger, and hold the gun as the blast kicked him back.
What would they find on her when it was said and done? Would they even hesitate, or would they flee out the door? What would be in her wallet? Did she have any family? A brother, or parents who disowned her?
~~
Thomas stood up and picked up the gun. It felt cold in his hands.
Monday, November 1, 2010
In the Know
Oh, I know all about Marty and her ex-boyfriend; I'm one of her friends, y'know.
They were tight, like this. Marty and Rod went everywhere with each other. The two of them were always touching, so much so that Mrs. Ratzlaff said they were an example of magnification...or was it magnetism. I dunno. The only time you saw Marty alone was when she used the restroom, and that was only between lunch and third period. Even then Rod was waiting right next to the door.
Sure, their schedules didn't always match up, but the two of them sure tried. Rod spent a week in the counselor's office trying to get his classes changed, but they told him it was too late. The semester was already halfway done, like doughy cookies. So Rod swore that he would skip that class every time that Marty couldn't skip hers. Their teachers didn't seem to mind; their grades only dropped two letters. After all, the two of them was science at work.
The day after Marty and Rod broke up, half the sophomore class wore black. I mean, geeze, the two of them breaking up was like a natural disaster. It was like a forest fire that destroyed fifty homes. It was like a hurricane that flooded a town, or the earthquake that left a crack down the middle of the football field. Football players on the other team still trip over it every once in a while, and every time Rod sees it happen he flinches a little, like someone punched him in the arm.
They were tight, like this. Marty and Rod went everywhere with each other. The two of them were always touching, so much so that Mrs. Ratzlaff said they were an example of magnification...or was it magnetism. I dunno. The only time you saw Marty alone was when she used the restroom, and that was only between lunch and third period. Even then Rod was waiting right next to the door.
Sure, their schedules didn't always match up, but the two of them sure tried. Rod spent a week in the counselor's office trying to get his classes changed, but they told him it was too late. The semester was already halfway done, like doughy cookies. So Rod swore that he would skip that class every time that Marty couldn't skip hers. Their teachers didn't seem to mind; their grades only dropped two letters. After all, the two of them was science at work.
The day after Marty and Rod broke up, half the sophomore class wore black. I mean, geeze, the two of them breaking up was like a natural disaster. It was like a forest fire that destroyed fifty homes. It was like a hurricane that flooded a town, or the earthquake that left a crack down the middle of the football field. Football players on the other team still trip over it every once in a while, and every time Rod sees it happen he flinches a little, like someone punched him in the arm.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
A Marriage to the Rope Maker's Daughter
Her father held her hand very delicately, as if he feared her fingers shattering into a million pieces. She worried that her little hands would press his gnarled fingers too hard and they would dissolve. Even then his hands rattled.
" 'm not 'fraid, sweetie. Neither sh'd ye be." He looked down at her with warm, if not worried eyes.
" 'm not afraid, Daddy. But where 're you goin'?"
Her father sighed, rubbing his leathered face tiredly as he searched the wall behind her for an answer. Finally, he smiled as his eyes found hers. "At dawn 'm gonna marry the rope maker's daughter"
She beamed, nearly jumping from the floor. "I've always want'd a mum." "What she like?"
He chewed his lip a little. "She's quite frightening, just like her father."
"Can I meet her?" She sat up a little, touching his face.
Her father shook his head sadly. "Not yet. I really wish I c'd bring ye to the weddin', but it's too scary fer little girls."
"But Daddy, 'm brave."
"Promise me ye won' go. Promise." His eyes searched hers this time, as if he were looking for an anchor.
_____________________________
Like many promises a little girl makes, she broke this one. She hardly slept that night, pacing around her room, eyeing the fort impatiently. Knowing her father, he would try to have an extravagant wedding. Usually that would mean renting the Governor's courtyard, but some reason her father and the governor didn't get along so well. He would have to have it at the fort, where the whole town could see.
She raced outside as the sun reluctantly rose over the eastern coast. Before that yellow coin finished rising over the water, the girl was hiding in the skirts of some woman in the crowd around the platform. She had a hard time spotting him, but she eventually found her father on top of the platform with a rope around his neck. The girl couldn't find a daughter anywhere on the platform, only the scary man in the black hood, and some sort of judge. Even the words of the man on the far end of the platform were hard to hear over the crowd's murmuring.
Yet the sound of trapdoor falling down cut right through.
" 'm not 'fraid, sweetie. Neither sh'd ye be." He looked down at her with warm, if not worried eyes.
" 'm not afraid, Daddy. But where 're you goin'?"
Her father sighed, rubbing his leathered face tiredly as he searched the wall behind her for an answer. Finally, he smiled as his eyes found hers. "At dawn 'm gonna marry the rope maker's daughter"
She beamed, nearly jumping from the floor. "I've always want'd a mum." "What she like?"
He chewed his lip a little. "She's quite frightening, just like her father."
"Can I meet her?" She sat up a little, touching his face.
Her father shook his head sadly. "Not yet. I really wish I c'd bring ye to the weddin', but it's too scary fer little girls."
"But Daddy, 'm brave."
"Promise me ye won' go. Promise." His eyes searched hers this time, as if he were looking for an anchor.
_____________________________
Like many promises a little girl makes, she broke this one. She hardly slept that night, pacing around her room, eyeing the fort impatiently. Knowing her father, he would try to have an extravagant wedding. Usually that would mean renting the Governor's courtyard, but some reason her father and the governor didn't get along so well. He would have to have it at the fort, where the whole town could see.
She raced outside as the sun reluctantly rose over the eastern coast. Before that yellow coin finished rising over the water, the girl was hiding in the skirts of some woman in the crowd around the platform. She had a hard time spotting him, but she eventually found her father on top of the platform with a rope around his neck. The girl couldn't find a daughter anywhere on the platform, only the scary man in the black hood, and some sort of judge. Even the words of the man on the far end of the platform were hard to hear over the crowd's murmuring.
Yet the sound of trapdoor falling down cut right through.
Monday, October 18, 2010
To Mrs. McGinnis
You look like a sponge squeezed.
That breath you carry around every
other moment probably weighs
a lifetime more than before.
I know if you could,
You would shoot light straight into your father's heart,
or create a sunbeam that would take your children straight to their grandfather.
You might feel like you're fighting a battle
Against a enemy you're not sure of.
Heaven is the highest victory,
a tower higher than the clouds.
I wish I could say you could climb up
such a tall ladder with your armor on,
your shield and sword in hand,
but they'll only weigh you down.
That breath you carry around every
other moment probably weighs
a lifetime more than before.
I know if you could,
You would shoot light straight into your father's heart,
or create a sunbeam that would take your children straight to their grandfather.
You might feel like you're fighting a battle
Against a enemy you're not sure of.
Heaven is the highest victory,
a tower higher than the clouds.
I wish I could say you could climb up
such a tall ladder with your armor on,
your shield and sword in hand,
but they'll only weigh you down.
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Love Song to Stumptown at 1 AM
Who would've thought,
that your best words were said when you were half-asleep.
I heard your bridges sigh
as my car's exhaust passed along the edges
Your streets laid bare,
no people to clothe them
Your sky-scraped office lights embraced me,
and kept me warm.
Your streetlights whispered through the glass,
and I could feel your breath through the vents
We spoke different languages,
but I think you said
"I miss you already."
I crept back home,
lost,
and raptured.
that your best words were said when you were half-asleep.
I heard your bridges sigh
as my car's exhaust passed along the edges
Your streets laid bare,
no people to clothe them
Your sky-scraped office lights embraced me,
and kept me warm.
Your streetlights whispered through the glass,
and I could feel your breath through the vents
We spoke different languages,
but I think you said
"I miss you already."
I crept back home,
lost,
and raptured.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Louise Cornwall
Inspired by Spoon River Anthology
I lived on the outskirts of town,
Between the quarry and the river.
I lived in a one bedroom house,
Once I moved to Spoon River.
My bedroom had a twin bed.
My kitchen table had one placemat.
I lived in Spoon River twenty years,
Alone.
I worked on my garden,
With a ring on my left hand,
Playing along with the rumors
That I was the cause of my his absence.
I wasn’t.
She was.
I lived on the outskirts of town,
Between the quarry and the river.
I lived in a one bedroom house,
Once I moved to Spoon River.
My bedroom had a twin bed.
My kitchen table had one placemat.
I lived in Spoon River twenty years,
Alone.
I worked on my garden,
With a ring on my left hand,
Playing along with the rumors
That I was the cause of my his absence.
I wasn’t.
She was.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Tiramisu
Pick me up
with sticky fingers,
with clouds on the tip of your tongue,
the sting of coffee in your nose,
and chocolate in your eyes.
with sticky fingers,
with clouds on the tip of your tongue,
the sting of coffee in your nose,
and chocolate in your eyes.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Snapshot
Aunt Flo never married, though she kept a house of two cats. In a drawer of hers she has a snapshot, the only one that's never been put in a scrapbook, photo album, or picture frame. It's black and white, if not a bit grainy, and careful fingerprints grace its corners.
A man in an army uniform, with his hat off, sits at a coffee shop somewhere in Europe, toying with his lighter and ignoring his coffee. No one joins him at the table, and in fact only a few human shapes are visible in the background. It's dim, in the morning, between the time residents go to work and the time they return for lunch and tea.
On the back Flo wrote a date, and possibly a name, but she later scratched it out without saying why.
A man in an army uniform, with his hat off, sits at a coffee shop somewhere in Europe, toying with his lighter and ignoring his coffee. No one joins him at the table, and in fact only a few human shapes are visible in the background. It's dim, in the morning, between the time residents go to work and the time they return for lunch and tea.
On the back Flo wrote a date, and possibly a name, but she later scratched it out without saying why.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Burden of Truth
He carried his burden on his back.
She carried it over her body.
Every bruise begged for candy,
every word called for geese.
Each misplaced fold told a story,
the day her man lost his job.
Each wrinkle of hers whispered
of the times he'd been rejected.
"Sorry, hon' I've been havin' a hard time"
She ate his apologies for dessert.
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