Qualm In the wake of a trauma, your every moment is ablated. Choose, you might, to
hide from it; but I see you anyway, pushing boxes and painting over the spots where
we broke a fall.
Deny it all you want, girl. Forget the date and don’t remember. You’ll still be
washing the dishes and drying them and dropping them on the floor.
Maybe it’s like what your uncle was saying:
that what’s done in hate, can be done
with love, as well—
or so I’ve heard tell.
hide from it; but I see you anyway, pushing boxes and painting over the spots where
we broke a fall.
Deny it all you want, girl. Forget the date and don’t remember. You’ll still be
washing the dishes and drying them and dropping them on the floor.
Maybe it’s like what your uncle was saying:
that what’s done in hate, can be done
with love, as well—
or so I’ve heard tell.
And that’s when the doorbell rings.
Friends. Good ones. And they gape at the shards in your knees. And you smile
and nod and set their condolences off to the side, along with all the ‘thank yous’ that
will never be sent now.
and nod and set their condolences off to the side, along with all the ‘thank yous’ that
will never be sent now.
They stay and talk awhile, our friends; but you don’t listen—your hands are too
busy dog-earing pages in a notebook.
So they go.
Skin like honey,
jellied lips;
she took stock in
herself,
a tableau of men’s
quixotic desires.
You preen too much, you know. I wrote that angry, three, or was it four years
ago? Not that time matters anymore when you're here, alone. That must be why
you retch at night and crave the oddest of things at dawn.
Part of the grieving process, no?
A succubus, a siren
a modern day
Lorelei,
Dolores Maria Rivera, my
how that name rolls
off the tongue so…
busy dog-earing pages in a notebook.
So they go.
Skin like honey,
jellied lips;
she took stock in
herself,
a tableau of men’s
quixotic desires.
You preen too much, you know. I wrote that angry, three, or was it four years
ago? Not that time matters anymore when you're here, alone. That must be why
you retch at night and crave the oddest of things at dawn.
Part of the grieving process, no?
A succubus, a siren
a modern day
Lorelei,
Dolores Maria Rivera, my
how that name rolls
off the tongue so…
And there you are running off again, crazy girl, out of the kitchen and into the
dining room, holding that knife. That’s right, go ahead.
Look at yourself in the flat edge.
dining room, holding that knife. That’s right, go ahead.
Look at yourself in the flat edge.
So thin and pale. A simple pound.
And no respite.
Your breath is ragged,
Your breath is light,
Your breath is honeysuckle in the nigh—
Your shunning begs: there’s no sleep for you now, no scowl to wake your cries.
Instead you’re at the damn fridge again, fawning over a turkey thigh and a jar of
mayonnaise so far gone that it’s got little zygote minds of its own churning away
inside. Multiplying. Dividing.
Keep on waiting like that, girl, and everything will go to rot.
My pretty little bird, how you mock me so:tilting your hips and rockingyour thighs. Every ounce ofyou a woman, no morea child.
My baby. My baby girl. But mine no more, and no one else’s. I gave you rings—
so many you could string them around your neck, a memorial fetish for all your
lovers. But only one man hangs there: a sacrificial man, a ‘forbade’ man; pinned to a
leafless tree to nestle in his meditations. Right where all the children should.
Sun's arising, girl, and the phone's in a bawl and you've gone and dropped
Your breath is ragged,
Your breath is light,
Your breath is honeysuckle in the nigh—
Your shunning begs: there’s no sleep for you now, no scowl to wake your cries.
Instead you’re at the damn fridge again, fawning over a turkey thigh and a jar of
mayonnaise so far gone that it’s got little zygote minds of its own churning away
inside. Multiplying. Dividing.
Keep on waiting like that, girl, and everything will go to rot.
My pretty little bird, how you mock me so:tilting your hips and rockingyour thighs. Every ounce ofyou a woman, no morea child.
My baby. My baby girl. But mine no more, and no one else’s. I gave you rings—
so many you could string them around your neck, a memorial fetish for all your
lovers. But only one man hangs there: a sacrificial man, a ‘forbade’ man; pinned to a
leafless tree to nestle in his meditations. Right where all the children should.
Sun's arising, girl, and the phone's in a bawl and you've gone and dropped
Junior, the ham, from his fantasy cradle. It's your ex, that bastard.
He wants to know a time.
He wants to know a time.
For the funeral, of course.
Black armbands and flowers. A few quiet words and a twenty-one gun salute.
Black armbands and flowers. A few quiet words and a twenty-one gun salute.
And then I’m out of here faster than the indentations we put on the table.
Such a precious child, you once were, I can see it in your eyes. That flash of skittishness, that spark of wine. The way you clutch those beads around your neck. Does it choke you, Love? Sometimes I wonder…
It should have been a day for pretty things—for doves and rice and ballroom
dancing. Not for your scurrying agitations.
I told you those sandals‘d be too tight.
How long?
How long, before
I’m just
the grass again?
Will you step upon me
then, and walk?
Ten minutes to eight, girl. Another two and he’ll arrive. And here you are
applying yourself to the bitter contents.
I said put it down, girl. The shimmer in that glass doesn’t compliment your side.
Surely by now you’d have felt it once.
Why else would your hands be on the fall to mine?
And your eyes have that quaggy simmer again.
Do you feel it now, girl? Our little drum.
Oh Lord…
Lord, bless…
And there you are laughing, like the second-in-best I'd give a ‘mallow to
pin on her crown, amber tress and the make all in a run, and here we are, oh Lord,
and I’m saying it:
I’ve been waiting for you to notice me,
wondering how long it would take;
all those nights spent cursing God and loneliness.
Yet here we are, us, together. And we are
alive, wondrously alive, aren’t we?
Such a precious child, you once were, I can see it in your eyes. That flash of skittishness, that spark of wine. The way you clutch those beads around your neck. Does it choke you, Love? Sometimes I wonder…
It should have been a day for pretty things—for doves and rice and ballroom
dancing. Not for your scurrying agitations.
I told you those sandals‘d be too tight.
How long?
How long, before
I’m just
the grass again?
Will you step upon me
then, and walk?
Ten minutes to eight, girl. Another two and he’ll arrive. And here you are
applying yourself to the bitter contents.
I said put it down, girl. The shimmer in that glass doesn’t compliment your side.
Surely by now you’d have felt it once.
Why else would your hands be on the fall to mine?
And your eyes have that quaggy simmer again.
Do you feel it now, girl? Our little drum.
Oh Lord…
Lord, bless…
And there you are laughing, like the second-in-best I'd give a ‘mallow to
pin on her crown, amber tress and the make all in a run, and here we are, oh Lord,
and I’m saying it:
I’ve been waiting for you to notice me,
wondering how long it would take;
all those nights spent cursing God and loneliness.
Yet here we are, us, together. And we are
alive, wondrously alive, aren’t we?
