Mourning Joe

Breeze brushes water

painting swirls and waves.

Leaves flitter, unsure.

 

Clouds anchored in blue beckon.

 

He moves along the shore

shedding shape and corporeality,

goodbyes rising

like fresh coffee steam.

 

And then he’s gone.

 

STILL

My flight arrives late and cabs are scarce. It’s after midnight when I unfold myself from the taxi's back seat and escape the cloud of stale smoke and curry. The cabby takes my cash without a word and drives away, destined for God knows where. I pause, deep slush soaking my new suede boots, then take a deep breath and push myself through the door.

 

Hours of silence are shattered by a siren screaming by. She doesn’t stir, just the rise and fall of her chest mark the moments before dawn. I shift in the chair, uncomfortable.

 

We’ve been friends for over 20 years. At Thanksgiving this year, after putting my kids to bed, we shared a bottle of wine and caught up. She got back together with Jarod. She said he treats her like a princess, buys her gifts. He really does love her. I told her I’ve heard it all before.  She said I’ve been bitter since my divorce. She left early and I didn't call. Now, here we are.

 

The ventilator inhales and exhales for her. Jagged lines track her heartbeat across the monitor, always returning to the start. I reach over and brush stray hair from her forehead, careful, so careful, to avoid her battered face. The necklace of bruises he left her will fade in time, but the damage runs deep, maybe permanent. It’s too early to tell.

 

The sun struggles to conquer the horizon, casting prisms from the melting icicles as it rises painfully slow, clouds lit up and glowing. 

 

My friend remains with me, still.

Live at the Polack Inn

Ben walks into the Polack Inn, taking in the Friday night crowd and hazy atmosphere. In the back a band screams and plays raging guitars. Some things never change.

“Hey Dave.”

“Ben! What brings you to town?”

Dave picks up an empty beer glass and dunks it in the soapy water behind the bar.

“Oh, just felt like seeing some familiar faces.”

“Cool. I heard your tour sold out. Congrats man!”

“Thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Rum and coke.”

“Coming right up.”

Ben takes another look around.  Same pool table, same beat up floor, same feeble lights struggling to illuminate the room.

“Here you go. On the house.”

“Thanks Dave.”

Ben grabs his drink and heads to the backroom. It’s like he never left.

The walls around him vibrate and the decibels climb. He sees himself in the guitar player on stage, sweat soaked and high beyond belief, all attitude and push. Girls with pink-tipped hair whip their heads in time to the frenetic beat. The song ends in an orgy of feedback and swagger before the band disengages from their guitars and goes in search of beer.

In the deafening silence that follows, Ben steps onto the stage and picks up a guitar. He unplugs it and begins to play a simple tune that slowly rises like smoke hovering 5000 feet above ground level. He closes his eyes, lost in the moment, weariness from the road jettisoned and far away.

People applaud. He smiles, lost in the music.

New Start

The wheel continued to spin even after the car slid to a stop. Funny thing was, Jamie couldn’t remember now where she was going so early and in such a hurry. Something about a chance for a new start. But that was before the deer stepped into the path of her headlights.

She remembered being fired from her job. Her boss’s wife, the surly old hag, had made accusations about missing funds, and then pointed her gnarled but well-manicured finger right at Jamie. Now she tried to focus, but her thoughts kept slipping away.

Jamie shifted in her seat, the pressure of the safety belt digging into her shoulder gradually gaining her attention. The car slid a few more feet and the trunk popped open spilling her emergency kit and her suitcase down the brush covered embankment.

She undid the seatbelt and dropped, bumping her head on the compressed car ceiling before shimmying out the window frame, her purse in tow.  As she stood, ears ringing, the car tipped and fell, already burning before it landed.

Jamie opened her purse and pulled her tattered prayer book from its depths. There, in the sanctity of its pages, nestled a thick stack of hundred dollar bills.

Her dad had once told her, “There are a hundred things you have not dreamed of, some good, and some bad. It all depends on the choices you make.”

She put the book back in her purse and, in the sunlit silence, turned and walked away.

Phoebe

The tall grass and brambles pull at Phoebe’s skirt; she walks on, oblivious. She’s often seen here walking through the field as the sky softens to dusk.

She hums, a secret song barely audible. It sounds like distant wind chimes, but there is no wind, not even the whisper of a breeze. The world holds its breath, save for some small animal that senses her approach and scuttles to a safer distance.

Phoebe’s feet pass over jagged stones set like teeth in the once fertile ground. They nip, greedy, at her soles. Still she pushes forward, heading toward the sumac thicket.

She slips through the branches and once on the other side heads due west. The sun fades and moon climbs as she crests a small rise. A weathered gray shack squats below, its door sagging on tired hinges. To open it would release a moan, but she's not interested. Instead she veers toward the jagged creek and the low stone fence below. And there she stops.

At her feet six small mossy stones, planted in a row, mark where she buried her babies. Each one dead at less than a year old.

She’d loved them singularly. Their chubby cheeks and pudgy feet. Their grasping, grabbing hands. And their lips. She’d gaze at them for hours as they slept, finally waking them to nurse at her breast. That was heaven. Knowing she alone could love them enough to keep them alive. That is, until the next one came, more perfect than the last. She didn’t have enough to give to two, so the elder would be wrapped in a blanket, tucked tenderly in the ground, and forgotten.

The seventh baby laid permanent claim to her. They died together in the small shack, tangled together in cord and placenta.

She returns each night, shocked anew to find plump and tender flesh replaced with seasoned bones that no longer reach for her, no longer warm her, no longer need her.

The Lake

Loon glides over slick
lily pads anchored in mud.
Dinner waits below.

Hurricane Promise

 Rain pelts the windows and the overhead lights flicker. Hurricane Promise makes her presence known.

I’d had this trip planned for two years. “Say hola to paradise.” That’s what the brochure had said. Sugar sand beaches, gentle waves, palm trees and sunshine. No computers. No work. No stress. Hah. I’d take the 8 to 5 grind over this any day.

The baggage carousel winds round and round, one lone suitcase repeating its jittery circuit, ignored, while we all crouch together on the floor as far from the windows as possible. This jumble of rumpled and unwashed humanity all silently prays to the god of their choice, begging to be delivered from disaster. Hopefully at least one of them has a direct line, because even though I don’t believe in god, I don’t want to die in this third world paradise either.

“It’s my birthday.” I say quietly, to myself. “I turned forty today.”

The body next to me gives me a gentle nudge.

“Would you like some gum?”

I smile and reach out, taking a piece from the calloused hand.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

I pop it in my mouth and revel in the inimitable burst of spearmint freshness.

“Where are you from?”

“Wisconsin,” he says, smiling.

“Me too.”

“Small world. Mine name is Simon. Simon Nap. But my friends call me Snap.”

“Nice to meet you Snap. I’m Valerie.”

“Well Valerie, I’m going to buy you a birthday drink once this storm blows over.”

I smile and the lights go out.

Natural Order

By Susan Reetz .

 

It was treacherous work. Each time Sarah put her hand forward she had to pay close attention to the proximity of small fuzzy bodies. But she persisted. She couldn't remember another fall like this, with bees as plentiful as the fat raspberries weighing down the canes. Maybe it was a sign that natural order was righting itself.

 

Sarah shuffled to her left, mindful of the dip in the ground where she had dug earlier this summer. Mary Jo had begged her for some raspberry plants. Said this year Sarah's spring berries tasted better than any others she had ever tasted. It must the fertilizer she put on late last fall. Normally she didn't do anything special with the berries, but she thought it would be a good experiment. It must have worked because her early crop had been amazing, and the fall batch was shaping up to be the best yet.

 

Growing her own food had always been one of her real passions. Salad greens, peas, carrots, potatos, squash, cucumbers, herbs, onions, corn, melons and more. For a while she had even had her own chickens. She missed the eggs, but not the shrieks when the fox got into the henhouse. Or the sound of snapping necks at butchering time. That had always been Bob's job, and once he left, she just didn't have the heart for it. She gave her hens to the family down the road, tore down the coop and closed that chapter of her life.

 

A bumblebee hovered lazily near her ear, its low drone bringing her back to the task at hand. It was somewhat unnerving to be surrounded by so many of the industrious little creatures, but so far they had been able to peacefully coexist. She tipped a cane forward so she could clearly see the fruit she aimed to pick.

 

Bob had liked to examine the fruit he would pick too. There would be times when they'd go for a walk in the park and something of interest would catch his eye. Something wild and weedy, neglected but with an underlying appeal apparent to only his senses. She hadn’t understood his fascination back then.

 

Sarah's bowl was almost full. Succulent drops of fruit still hung from the canes, but she was suddenly tired. As she stood debating whether or not to continue picking, a large bee landed on her hand. The tickle of its feet stayed with her after it realized that she had no pollen and flew away.

 

Bob was the last person to touch her hand.

 

She was in her garden cutting down the last of the corn stalks in the dimming October light when she'd heard it. The shrieking, reverberating with terror and pain. She grabbed her shovel and ran to the coop. This would be the fox's last foray.

 

The chickens scattered before her, a hysterical swirl of feathers and dirt. The light evaporated as she stepped inside the coop. She heard rapid breathing to her right. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw a small figure crouched on the floor. Small, but much too big to be a fox. She stepped forward and it whimpered, weak.

 

Bob stepped out of the shadows buttoning his pants. The child remained unmoving, now making no sound at all.

 

"He followed me home. He wanted to see the chickens."

 

Bob turned to gesture to the child. That's when she swung. She caught him on the side of the head, snapping his neck. He reached for her as he fell, his fingertips just grazing her hand.

 

Sarah went to the child. He couldn’t have been on more than four and looked so peaceful. She closed the lids over his empty brown eyes and he looked like he was sleeping. Just sleeping.

 

That night Sarah tilled her garden under with only the moon as her witness. In the spring she’d let the raspberry canes spread and cover a larger portion of the garden. Their thorns would keep the local dogs away.

 

The next day Sarah drove her chickens down the road. No, she wouldn't take any money for them. She was just glad someone could take them.

 

No one came looking for the lost child who she secretly talked to and nicknamed Buzz. Maybe that's why the bees were so plentiful. Maybe they talked to him too.

Time

Once, long ago
time grew in my garden
nestled among wee peas
baby carrots and budding wisdom
spreading tendrils
to all corners,
eventually pushing boundaries and
spilling over.
Autumn's hungry dusk crept in
and come morning
time was gone.

OVERFLOW

Thoughts spill from the pitcher

in your hands.

They slop over and land everywhere,
drops of ideas pooling on
the flowers
the table
the floor,
all with equal chance to
nourish,
damage or

evaporate
and make no difference
at all.

A Brief Cycle

You’re gone, and I’m left behind, abandoned among the empty boxes, wadded paper, and discarded needles, no longer wanted or needed. I bear your marks heavily on my scarred and broken legs. My arms hang, futile, at odd angles by my sides. I can no longer withstand the slightest pressure - hold no one and no body. My purpose was once clear.

I’ve seen so much, felt the touch of many, and been used steadily. I remember the parties, where booze and drugs flowed freely, often coating me from top to bottom. Junkie after junkie came to me, seeking sweet repose. You didn’t care. I was there, after all, to be used.

And I remember vividly the violence... the rages that sent me skidding across the room, solidly meeting the innocent wall. The time you threw me out the window, the canopy below breaking my fall.

I had thought that would be it. But you found me when you got out of jail and brought me back. You even cleaned me up in one of your lucid moments, looking at me as though you’d never really seen me before. I could sense your good intentions. You had put your old life behind you and begun again, walking straight, working honestly… living a right life.

You held out for a few days. Do you remember? When you came back you straightened the rods and re-hung the curtains, leaving them open to the world and the light. No more hiding, you said. No more darkness, you said. What went wrong?

I know. I saw. I watched the cravings creep within the shadows. I heard them whisper to you softly, seductively. They wafted memories of that first high, the best high, the high to beat all highs, and promised that you’d feel that way again.  When they stroked your skin, raising goose bumps and your desire, I knew they had you, and I knew it was the end.

I watched as you prepared your needle and slid its tip into your neck. You smiled at first, but that quickly changed. The convulsions danced you across the room, destroying me as I watched.

You’re quiet now, and I’ll wait for the quiet to reach me too.

NOTE: I first wrote this several years ago. A friend challenged me to write a story from the point of view of a piece of furniture. Can you guess what my inspiration was?

NONSENSE

I slipped and fell into

a dream.

It caught me

up and carried me

away to a land where nothing

was what it seemed.

A train chugged along whistling a

lonely plaintive song, then

chirped a cheerful melody

and puffed tea from its spout

as it wound its way out of

sight and the night came rushing

in on wings of feather and fin

and carried me to the

Electric neon stars and when

I touched one it opened in on itself

revealing a million more

all in a line

going back to

the beginning of time

where a goat danced on

a twirling top.

The top became the bottom and I was

back on the ground. No one was around

so I began to walk and walk

and walked to a long chalk hopscotch

and when I

hopped

the scotch popped

and I woke

To a sleeping me

hunting through my inner

spaces for familiar faces and

themes.

 

 (This poem originally appeared in the 2012 edition of MUSH literary magazine.)

The top became the bottom and I was

back on the ground. No one was around

so I began to walk and walk

and walked to a long chalk hopscotch

and when I

hopped

the scotch popped

and I woke

To a sleeping me

hunting through my inner

spaces for familiar faces and

themes.