They moved together restlessly
She with hesitation
He with impatience
She knew things he did not
He understood things she never would
Exploring, guiding, testing, discovering, tensing, releasing, breathing
He reached, touched
Her body smiled
He understood the where and when, cause and effect
Like a scientist mixing vital chemicals creating a reaction
She was carried on a wave
Despite herself
Despite what she knew, how it would end
He moved in ferocious tempo
Moved to unveil secrets
She stopped with
“Will the magic be gone?”
Hesitation, empty platitudes.
“When you see me, the magic will go ”
He created a new wave
She let herself be distracted
Closed her eyes.
Let go.
As he looked, she dissolved into warm light.
She was gone.
He was grasping at shadows and light
She could see, not feel
He could touch but not see
Too far apart
Dimensions to cross
She knew this world of illusion
He understood transience of flesh
They moved slowly
To find a way either back or somewhere else
She with patience
He with disbelief
Exploring, reaching, holding, tasting, hoping, being.
We Have Our Orders
“Schnapps, please,” she told the bartender. She took the drink and in a precious few minutes, turned back for another. The formerly vacant seat at the bar by her was now filled with a large man. He looked like he was mostly legs. She could not see his face as he was turned away, watching a game of billiards.
“Another schnapps, please,” she ordered. The man next to her turned and looked at the bartender. “I’ll have one, too,” he said.
“With your coffee?” asked the bartender?
“Sure. Why not,” the man smiled as he turned his head slightly to look at her.
She could not help but stare at him. Not conventionally handsome, there was something oddly compelling and familiar about his face.
“The shop by the Canteen,” he said.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“That’s where I’ve seen you,” he said. “The book shop by the bar on South Street. You like biographies, right?”
“And you like the travel section.”
He laughed, surprisingly a lighter tone than she expected and she somehow she felt lighter too.
His eyes stayed smiling even after he had stopped and he said a bit more serious in tone, “I don’t like to travel really. I’m just trying to do my homework, that’s all.”
She noticed he was at least her age and she was fast approaching 30. Homework? Her confusion must have shown on her face because when he looked at her again, his smile went from his eyes to his mouth again and he explained that he was awaiting orders to be sent overseas for work. Could be England or Switzerland or Turkey.
She said she would give a lot to be able to travel outside of her little office. Before she knew it, she was describing the trapped feeling she had been carrying around for the past year or so. How she imagined all sorts of adventures when she looked at the faces of other subway riders on the way to work in the morning. How tired she felt at the end of a long week of pretense and denial and plastering fake smiles for the rest of the world while her heart broke a little every day knowing she wasn’t living the full life she could be.
She took a deep breath. Where had all that come from? She had thought she was content. Except for some niggling feeling of anticipation that something was coming. She had started feeling it the summer before. But here, at the end of winter, with the first warm breath of spring breathing new life into the city, she thought she was content. But she realized she had been only fooling herself.
“Hello. Where did you go there?” he asked.
She had forgotten she had been pouring her strife out to him. She had forgotten herself. She sat quietly, looking at him, hoping her hopelessness was again tamped down in her face. He seemed to sense she was at a loss for something so he did the only thing he could think of.
“Dance with me,” he said. There was a bluegrass band playing some blues. It was nice. They were an odd match on the floor but they fit like laughter at a funeral.
The evening passed with schnapps and bluegrass and laughter. As the bartender was putting up the last of the clean glassware and turning out the lights, the man leaned forward on the bar stool and kissed her gently, slowly. When he sat back to look at her, he was pleased to see her open her eyes with great effort. A spell that didn’t want to be broken.
“Here’s what I want for you,” he said to her. “Do something that really makes you happy. You’re the only one stopping you.”
She laughed then. Lightly. Not wanting the spell to be broken. “I guess we all have our orders,” she said.
Poetry Published
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Embers and Tears
She peripherally saw the swirling waters at her feet. Glowing embers lifted on the breeze dotting the dusk like fireflies. She uncurled her fists and hit the wall but quietly so nobody knew
yet not so soft as she was wanting someone to catch her. She wondered as she watched everyone walking through the puddles why they didn’t seem to mind or even notice when she greatly disliked wet socks. Why don’t they stop, roll up their trousers, and wade barefoot? she wondered. Of course no one likes murky water or walking where you can’t exactly see where you’re going. But isn’t that part of the fun? she cried to herself? She was rare in that she truly liked being surprised.
Strange to be seen but not heard, she thought. Like a wisp of smoke rising from newly minted ashes with some grey warmth reaching out carefully. She tried to speak the words people wanted to hear but it always felt like she was playing dress-up with clothes that would never fit. The verbal costumes were fun, but she’d never want to keep them for her own. She’d rather sing and laugh than be so serious and weighted down with worry. When she blinked errant years away the crowd saw the tears and moved on, leaving her shaking and alone.
She wanted to share how happy she was in her own head with somebody in the world but maybe that kind of love is an illusion and the only magic that is true is what we dream when we’re awake. At night, the dreams don’t discern but describe things we don’t want to admit. She probably will never stop reaching out like tendrils of flyaway hair to find the connection that would help her finish her thoughts.
Breathing deep was getting harder as the waters rose but the burning nearby kept her warm. When she looked around, she realized she had missed some living while treading in her thoughts. Catching moments was harder than counting grains of sand. But not as hard as counting snowflakes.
Embers and tears combine and conspire to make the work of messy art that made her cache of nightmares come alive in a rich two-dimensional frame of reference.
The Mother I’d Like to Be
She planted jelly beans and licorice in hopes of growing her own candy-land. She read the back of cereal boxes as bed-time stories and made adventures out of nutritional information. She hung artwork framed by hula-hoops. She only drank water from the hose. Her wig was always worn askew. On purpose. She reveled in the stories of her youth, but only ones that were entirely fictional and involved unicorns and rainbows and cloud cities. Her favorite game to play with her children was leap-frog but when she played, she pretended she was a tadpole. She crafted makeup from flowers and Kool-Aid. When she was feeling a little too good, she would close her eyes, rock violently in a rocking chair for hours until she felt good and sea-sick. Her bed was a custom-made large matchbox, complete with a striker. She took a two-hour siesta every afternoon and wrote her best stories after awakening. Her house was lit by hoards of fireflies that happily supplied their light. Her children never wanted for hugs and kisses because her love for them was as boundless as her appetite for old movies and off-color jokes and brownie-filled doughnuts.
The Word Rummager 