Funny how vicious a cycle life is, isn’t it? It’s sadistic, almost. We spend most of it picking
up broken glass, trying to make sense of a deadly jigsaw puzzle that only leaves you
bleeding in the end. This is glass that, even when put back together, makes a window
that’s impossible to see out of.
When we finally slink away to lick the wounds, we return to broken sunshine glittering off
of the once again shattered window. Even though our old wounds are scabbing over, we
try to rebuild until there is nothing left but naked flesh, no protecting skin left, all blood
and exposed muscle…
But if we could only stop to see the way that the wicked sunlight shines off of our wrecked
windows or the way that the moon makes the pieces glow at night, then maybe we could
rest for one single moment.…
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We called them his fish pants. If mom threw them in the hamper at night when
Knuckle stripped them off, he followed her and fished them back out. When mom
tried to sneak in to his bedroom after he was asleep, he took to stuffing them under
his pillow. They billowed out a chicken-of-the-sea stench that gave them their name
and lingering importance that pronounced them before they ever entered a room or
left it.
Knuckle was the youngest of seven in our brood. He went through challenging
phases. When he was two he was a sweeper. He carried the broom everywhere and
swept away at the floor, the rug, our desks and our dog, Shana, who wasn’t as easy
to contain. She kept biting at the bristles, which frustrated him and got in the way of
his progress.…
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I
A Different Kind Of Summer
—–They were at the summerhouse on the lake. Every year her father explained to her
about the old well.
—–“You mustn’t climb up there or remove the cover. If you fall in, Sylvie, you can never,
ever get out.”
—–The rounded, grey stones were surrounded by high weeds and briars. Once, she had
seen a long, thick, black-silver snake slither around the base. Sylvie stayed far away from
the well.
—–This summer, Sylvie’s mother would be commuting. She explained to her five year
old daughter, commuters take the train into the city to work during the week and return
at the weekend to be with their cherished, delightful daughters. Sylvie’s lower lip
trembled. …
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The same way that Winter
Wraps it’s cold fingers around my throat,
Is the same way it feels when you hold me.
I can’t breathe,
I can’t think.
I am frozen,
I am yours.
You are the Winter,
You blow right through me and chill my bones.
You raise goosebumps on my arms and legs, but most of all…
You are home.
You see, I was born in the arms of Winter.
I thrived inside a frozen womb,
I was raised inside of frozen igloos,
And learned to walk on ice.
I am home,
Even though the wind whips and burns my face.
I am home,
even though snow seeps into my socks and boots.
Even though I hurt,
Even though I freeze,
I am home.…
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Commemoration
Juliette sat with stuffed animals in the darkness. Her mother placed the cake on the table; a pink and white “9” rested in its center, providing the only illumination in the room. A droplet fell onto the frosting. Her father had just opened a window and finished taping another red streamer to the ceiling. He threw more confetti into the air, hoping she would become lost in laughter. Some of it landed on the cake, most of it on the table, and a few sparse circles covered the framed black & white photo of Elizabeth playing in a sandbox. A plate lay in front of it. Juliette saw the candle flicker in the glass, an orange streak of life in the space between them. They sat together and watched the flame as it danced around the wicker.…
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1997
The bulging moon sits like a giant Buddha belly, low in the sky, magnified by the
polluted atmosphere and bright lights of suburbia. From my view on the ground,
the branches of a weeping willow tree scratch across the moon’s surface, creating
open gashes, unhealed scars. The pond below me is completely still but for an
occasional ripple initiated by the soft autumn breeze.
I decide to memorize this image, to take a mental snapshot. My head rests on the
roots of a willow tree, turned left to face the moon. Blurry blades of grass invade
my peripheral. I shift until the moon is centered among the descending willow
branches, like bony fingers scraping across light. Satisfied, I let my arms flop
to the ground, palms up, summoning.…
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If I were crazy—as in, my action potentials askew, my cranial nerves unnerved, a great
psychic disconnect between thought and reality—I wouldn’t linger at the train stop.
I wouldn’t stare at the sky and flex tinfoil over my head, or laugh fist-clenched at
a joke no one told. I wouldn’t argue the geographic advantages that the allied Germany
and Russia have in the fight against the moon, tell you about my drinking problem, or
wear my pants backward. If I were crazy—as in, the severe and repeated misfiring of
neurotransmitters in my head—I wouldn’t advertise it. I wouldn’t be involved in or be the
target of any national government conspiracy; there would be no men in black suits
watching from the bushes; I wouldn’t contort my face for my strange relationship to
germs or understand the long-winded allegories within words.…
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