From a captivating writer.
Please check him out.
From a captivating writer.
Please check him out.
I did not think I would reach the age
where a decent 12-year-old single malt
would be considered
a regrettable choice.
I thought by now
I would be reading Chaucer,
maybe listening to an opera or two.
My second ex-wife says Pucccini is good,
though he’s no Frankie Sinatra.
Now I stand before this mess,
examining the sodium content
of my boil-in-a-bag chow mein.
Today I fed the last of my muffaletta bread
to the last of the winter sparrows
assembled in the Radio Shack parking lot.
There’s free parking around back
if you can navigate
between the crates of broken gin bottles
and plastic bits of modem.
The birds don’t seem to mind
the evaporation stains.
They leave wormy puddles on my door mat
when they come to regurgitate
breakfast to their scuttling chicks.
They don’t even try to aim anymore,
they’re like the tenured drunks
who fly to the urinals at Giuseppe’s Taproom
because because because because because
pissing on your pant cuffs is the secret code
that you’ve given up on the things
that make faith your last resort.
I did not think I would reach the age
where I would sit beside serious women
in a skatepark.
They wear the colors of homemade knit blankets
foaming across their laps,
and they carry pretzels in their purses to pass
to the finches flickering around that
with the petals blowing
onto the quarter pipe.
They share a flask of bourbon and tea,
and, yes, they are more interesting
than the rubber-boned 12-year-olds
still learning to appease the laceration gods.
Some of us never grow away from our choices.
The pigweed is choking out the old summer garden,
and these morning glories have finally figured out
the shortest distance between the dirt
and the kitchen floorboards.
The family pictures, all gone
except for this one of Henry leaning against
Mister Sam’s blue Chevrolet Coupe.
You can see cousin Laurel’s shadow falling
across the patch of dandelions beside his boot,
him with a grin, and
her, well, I don’t know
what happened to her,
no one ever said whether living or dead.
That picture slipped behind the pantry shelves
and no one noticed it missing
for almost 60 years.
Henry died back in ‘62.
another twister shredded
the porch and the backyard tool shed.
No one was hurt but
for the way we thought about things.
We stayed on that particular patch of land.
Where else would we go?
What else did we have?
Youngest brother Davy lost to lung cancer
back in ‘89,
sister Marlene broke her hip down cellar
and it grew a blood clot, early winter, 2003.
Mom, bless her heart, heart attack at 52,
Dad, soon after that, broken-hearted
and emphysema, 55.
And the rest that was left, cousins
and further-back kin,
well, they drifted away, you know,
they just drifted apart.
There is no real hole in the moon
when it hoists itself up as a curled pale shaving,
it is the illusion of its incompleteness
that sets your mind to doubt.
Me and Lucille, we are the last ones. There is a particular sorrow in saying, ‘Remember Cousin Muriel?’ because no one does. Loo’s memory is fading, and I am right behind her. The years, you know, they pile one atop the other until the weight closes the lid.
“They drift, honey,” Loo says, reading my mind again. “The memories, they drift like leaves, out of order, random as curtains. Sure, I remember Muriel.”
We are lying in bed, hearing/not hearing the oscillating fan that escorts us to sleep, thick family quilts piled by our feet, sardine-colored light pouring through venetian blinds. It is my turn to cook breakfast, but the floor is still cold, and I can see every word of our conversation turn to vapor.
“I remember Muriel,” she says, and she squeezes my hand.
Said my Loo: She was a very pale girl, short brown hair. Mousy hair.
I remember her lipstick, said I, what color would you call it? Brown?
Some kind of maroon, I think. It was an ugly color. Muriel introduced us, you and me, do you remember that? You were frightened of her, and that made me laugh. I don’t know why, because she scared me too. You lived just past the four-way stop, where it turned into Baltimore Road, and I spoke to you for the first time at church. You were quite a bit older.
I was two years older, Loo.
But I was a girl, she said. Two years is a lot at that particular age.
Go on about Muriel. How did you know her?
Oh, said Loo, she sometimes taught Sunday school class, whenever Miss Barbara was ill. Her voice was so deep, like quarry water. She scared most of the girls, but she had a look in her eyes, a bedevilled look, like everything was a clever joke she constructed.
She was oddly built, I said. And her voice did come from her feet.
But she could recite those passages like she meant them. She could have become a preacher, in a different time.
And did she?
Did she what, dear?
Did she believe what she read, the gospels and the epistles, the psalms and the songs?
I don’t know, said Loo. I know she cursed when she was angry, which was often. Such vile words.
I remember her funeral, I said. It was an odd thing. It was so quiet until near the end of the service. You could barely hear the preacher speak.
No, wait, said Loo. I remember that, too.
Remember? Someone from town noticed she had been buried in the wrong plot.
They put her beside your cousin Henry, was that it?
Henry was not kin, I said. I’m not sure of his distinction. He was a friend of cousin Laurel, I think. Henry died the year before. Scarlet Fever? I know that Muriel was afraid of him, she made mention of it to everyone. No one ever explained to me why she was afraid of him. Oh, what a foolish mistake that was, burying her in the wrong spot. It made the whole thing feel so unfinished. I was twelve years old, and even I knew it was a bad thing.
Did they ever move her to a different spot?
No, I said. It would take too long, and cause too much sorrow for the family to go through it again. The church planted a rosebush between the two plots as a compromise, but the roses always died. In time, everyone who attended the funeral passed, or forgot, or stopped caring. Because that all happened in the old century, you know.
Just like us, said Loo, rather bitterly. From the old century. And then she smiled. But we still remember, don’t we, Charlie?
For now, I answered. This damn room isn’t getting any warmer. You want your eggs scrambled or over-easy this morning?
Oh, honey, you know how I like them. I trust you.
Take a look at this picture. It was taken by someone I don’t remember, of someone whom I can barely recall. But I remember the event, the time of day, the slant of the sun, the sound of the bees surrounding the morning glories, the smell of the illicit beer on Henry’s breath, my father laughing behind me, my mother watching through the kitchen window, and I remember my cousin Laurel sliding away from the camera. She was a shy girl.
Mister Sam drove his brand new Coupe straight onto our lawn, and he parked it beside the side porch. My father loved the lines of that car, coveted it for himself, and wanted a chance to drive it. The car was beyond his means, but he didn’t hold it against Mister Sam. They were friends.
Someone pulled out their box camera, Henry stepped in front before anyone was ready for a formal shot, and the picture was taken.
But look closely. Focus in on the shadow that leans into the dandelions by Henry’s foot. There is a second shadow intersecting the primary one. It belongs to me, reaching for a kiss from Laurel. She was trying to move away from me, and her shadow bumped into the portrait. She was afraid of me. It wasn’t my first attempt at a kiss. And she wasn’t the only cousin from whom I attempted one.
“Don’t,” she said, and then she ran away. She didn’t say anything when I met up with her later, when we were alone.
I have lost my dear Lucille, and my heart grows more weary with each step I take towards her stone. We were the last of our time, me and Loo, and now I’m the last. I will lay roses on her grave every day until I am unable, and hope they will survive me. She is the only one I need to remember.
It is the illusion of my completeness that sets my mind to doubt.
There was a bruise on her thigh
the size of my eager young thumb,
the shape and color of a cat’s serving of
Neapolitan ice cream.
It was not my intention to cause her such a harm,
but it was the mark of my drowning eagerness for her,
a thoughtless expression of my wretched rawness.
I did kiss her quick,
a slight sweep upon her hip,
my lips a light touch upon her caramel skin.
She did not flinch or brush me away,
and in her eyes I saw a reflection of myself:
ragged, thin, braced against a cracked nighttime window
framing my narrow frame into a surprising self-portrait.
And I, unexpected, delivered her no preach of the affection
she had overwhelmed in me.
She poured over my every pore,
and my thirst for her was abated, though my heart was dispirited
that I caused her even this unintentional harm.
do they still hold sleepovers
behind the textile plant,
on those burned-out chesterfields and
the la-z-boys with the brown foam
spilling out of the arms,
and do the bricks still smell like homemade
and wet takeout cartons
are the psalms still written on the plywood windows,
random angry verbs and treatises on
Vietnamese honey bees, and
big-G Gods and little-g goddamn ex-wives,
it’s all there, Mister Tinn, a written history
of living drunk on lower Caraway Street
but do you know what it is,
what it really is,
it’s all hidden in the uncomplicated folds of
the fabric of her skirt
like laurel leaves
under my fingers
that certain shade of green
and that certain breath she held
when she saw me approach her
flicking cigarette butts into
coffee cans and soft brick window wells
clotted with three years worth of dead leaves
and I’m hoping
maybe something will ignite
and hey, there’s the new kid Carlos explaining again
the harmony of Samdhana yoga
to those with no fucking flexibility, he says
there was too much oneness between the sangria and his breath
when he tried his Yin posture on his teacher and her husband
swore he would beat the living shit out of him
if he tried that kind of
so do you think maybe he’s old enough
to end up dying here
with the rest of us
are the scars she said a fleshybrown
hook on her belly a rage of adjectives against her
skin by hand under shirt under skirt look
here where the skin broke
at the damages she tolerates
for not knowing
his rages against the surface part of her,
the retractable blade
went here, look, touch these damages
they are only torn fabric silk and muscle bleeding
dye and plasma, dying
you hear a different meaning
from the language she has given you