Every afternoon she parked and walked off at five past four, leaving the car for her ex-husband who lived opposite my office, her clothes changing as the trees changed, wrapped up as leaves fell, insulated under bare branches, exposed flesh returning with green’s return.
Skeletal trees appeared again. I watched her parking, expecting to see candelabra-tree shadows on her disappearing back; but she walked towards her ex-husband’s flat, the first time I had seen this, her arms swinging, back upright, intention gripping her face.
She entered her ex-flat. Then: SWERRAAAACCCC!
My work colleague looked at me.
“A car back-firing?” I offered.
“I didn’t hear a car,” Peter replied.
“OH MY GOD!” the ex-husband screamed. “OH MY GEAWWWDDD!!”
X’s voice flailed tentacle possibilities in my head. Our manager crossed the road and knocked on X’s door.…
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We think of day and night in symmetry, in endless succession but day was born from the long cold pre-Solar night and in the heat-death of the universe will collapse back into night once more; time will end. And so this, the ticking of a great clock, is an odd instant between two faceless expanses of darkness. The symmetry we feel between light and dark, morning and evening is just a brief chapter in which light almost holds darkness at bay. It has rained too heavily all day to go out and now as the dusk draws in I sit at the small table by the window, at the top of the stair. The maid has brought me a lamp, some quills and ink from my study.…
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What country did I rule? What pirate did I befriend? Did I know Harry Winston personally? Whatever my past lives were, no doubt, I carried my passion for jewelry with me into this incarnation. I am VS1-clear on how important jewels are to me. Before I could walk, I accessorized. Baubles have fascinated me since day one, and I remember wearing a plastic teething ring as a bracelet. How kind of fate to bring me into the world in the month of the diamond. If only I were born wearing a birthstone ring.
While others carried dolls and toys, I carried my jewelry box with me in my young years. When playing with friends on the front stoop —yes, stoop, not porch, not steps, I grew up urban, inner-city — I’d take each piece out and position it on the top step, rearrange the necklaces, put all the rings together, then lift and coddle each piece before putting it back in the pink, cardboard jewelry box.…
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“Intimacy unhinged, unpaddocked me.” – Diane Seuss
I am like Roethke’s bulb in a florist’s root cellar
rotting and extending sprout simultaneously,
searching for light with only a few minutes in my pocket.
They say Susan Boulet’s painting, Playing with the North Wind,
is her goodbye to the world—death and beauty laced together
in a blue bundle as though they are not different from each other.
This countdown nonsense is maddening, little indicators
flashing on as the body wears down—walking slower
to the mailbox to retrieve advertisements for things
I don’t need—where’s enlightenment—where’s the euphoria
of climax—that warm endorphin wave—rush of hush
and open-mouth kisses—all gone now—even memories
abandon me—wave goodbye as they lift above the frozen horizon
in Boulet’s painting—a fine faded star in the west.…
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Today, Casy is wearing soft green slacks, the color of elephant ear plants. Her thin hair is pulled back in a sensible tail. However, as always, she has found a way to add bits of personality to her business outfit: a gold pin clipped near her hairline, the locket strung around her neck. It is her mother’s. She wears it every day, even though it’s made of copper and is leaving a subtle green stain across her collarbone. Her mom died four months ago tomorrow, and the pain has not lessened.
I haven’t seen her mom. Like her daughter, she always had things in order and never had regrets.
I watch as Casy walks towards the bus station, her strides firm and direct. The angle of her platform boots makes her lean back when the road slopes downwards.…
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Recently one of my children aggressively grabbed another, and, with much sincerity and enthusiasm, cried, “I love you!” The child on the receiving end, also with sincerity but with less enthusiasm, responded, “I don’t love you.” The loving child repeated the sentiment one more time, in case the unloving child had not really heard correctly, but the response remained adamant. I could relate to both of them—the loving one had ventured into what was for them a rare moment of openness and vulnerability, only to be rejected, while the unloving one had been terrorized by the loving one for the better part of a morning and was only stating what was, in that moment, a truth.
Love has never been simple concept to me. I come from a loving enough family, but not one that likes to express this love verbally.…
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Father, you don’t need to ask how long it’s been since my last confession. You know and I know the truth. It’s been a week. But what a week, Father! Does it involve another trip to that place? Yes, it does. But a lot more than that Father. And that woman? Yes, she makes another appearance. Probably her last though. I really think I’ve managed to get her out of my system this time. It didn’t involve too much sinning. Just a little. Which is why I’m here.
It starts with my Uncle Errol. I’m not blaming him. He just happens to live near that place. Yes, Father, the San Sussy. Not to be confused with the Sugar Bunker next door. I’m not good enough to go there.…
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