Distraction

 The distraction contraption

captures eyes and minds

fracturing focus

 

You won’t know why your

decisions are diverted and

your mind muddled but

it’s the way it goes

and goes and goes

 

A passion for distractions

led Miss Mindy to

derail her details

upsetting Arnold’s apple cart

and Sally’s side gig

 

Focus was foregone and

forlorn Frida fell faint

Danny ditched their date

his focus glued to

a new gadget

 

He lost all track of time

poking and stroking his

iThingy until a bell in his head

went dingy and he remembered Frida

alone at a table with a plate of Alfredo

on a summer’s Friday night

Black Crow Strut

 

Black crow

Watch your strut

Bob your head

Tut tut tut

 

Don’t think too hard

Just go with the flow

When it’s right

The flow will know

 

Black crow

Bob your head

And you will see

What keeps you fed

 

Squirrel and rabbit

Deer and cat

You duck and jive

‘Nough to keep you fat

 

Black crow

Dip your beak;

Below your feet

Is all you seek

 

Flap your wings

Shuffle your feet

Lift off to the trees

Though you want more to eat

 

Black crow

Watch the street

Knowing fast cars bring

More meat

 

Watch your strut

Bob your head

Shuffle those feet

Feast on the dead

Breakfast Cereal and Blood

 

Bitsy woke with a snarl in her hair and an itch in her belly. Mamma would say that she’d gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, but she put her feet down on the same piece of floor as every other morning. It was her only option. The opposite side of the bed was snug against the wall to make space for her baby sister’s crib on the other side of the room. She grumbled her way down the hall and to the kitchen table.

It was dark so Bitsy sat down to wait. The hard chair bothered her bottom and the itch in her belly grew. The clock above the stove showed 12:20 am, but since she could not yet tell time, she had no idea that breakfast was a long wait away. No matter, Bitsy was not renowned for her abiding patience and after five minutes of excruciating inactivity, she decided to get it herself.

She scraped her chair across the floor. Next, she monkeyed up to stand on the seat and reached for the box of Sugar Bombs perched on the fridge. She stretched every inch of her 5-year-old body, but her fingers merely grazed the edge of the elusive box and pushed it further from her grasp. It was now wedged against Mamma’s favorite candlesticks that lived atop the fridge to keep them from harm’s way.

“OK Bitsy,” she said to herself. “Think. How can you make yourself taller?”

A flush of pride rose through her as the solution became apparent.

Bitsy rose up and onto the very tips of her toes like the ballerinas she saw in Cinderella at the Grand Theater last week. Still not tall enough.

She began to bounce. Not quite. She executed a small leap reaching far enough to knock the box of breakfast delight into the candlesticks sending them all flipping off the edge of the fridge. Cereal rained down like confetti, light and colorful. Unfortunately, Bitsy did not have time to enjoy the view or imagine that she was a hero in a parade because the candlesticks, made of heavy crystal, fell faster than the cereal and whacked her on the head. This triggered the backward descent of the chair on which Bitsy landed heavily, smashing the candlesticks into even smaller pieces.

Heavy steps hurried from Mamma and Pappa’s bedroom just as Bitsy, now covered in blood and breakfast cereal, realized it was not really the time for breakfast after all.

Unicorn Blood and Groceries

 “Ah, Cooper? Why is unicorn blood on our shopping list?”

“Because,” he replies, absorbed by the Lego castle he’s constructing.

What am I going to do with this kid? Since we’ve been sequestered at home 24/7, he’s actually become less communicative. I would’ve thought that with all the time we spend together, just the two of us, we’d be practically telepathic by now.

“Cooper. Would you please look at me?”

I watch him struggle to divert his attention from his elaborate creation and turn his gaze in my direction.

“I need you to help me understand why exactly we need unicorn blood. Can you do that?”

He sighs and rubs his hand across his temple, an elderly man in a nine-year-old child’s body. I am obviously trying his patience.

“So, you remember reading the Harry Potter books when I was little?”

“I do remember that,” I respond.

Cooper and I had spent weekends and evenings in the early pandemic, a full year ago now, plowing through Rowling’s hefty tomes. The neat resolution at the end of each book gave us a sense of control that we didn’t have in the real world what with my company shutting down, schools going virtual and my mom succumbing to COVID-19. We found the suspense and magical twists in the Harry Potter series preferable to the reality of the death and economic devastation in our everyday reality.

“Cooper, what does Harry Potter have to do with our grocery list?”

“Well,” he rubs his chin where whiskers are likely to sprout in six to seven years. “I just thought it would be good to have some unicorn blood on hand, just in case.”

I walk over and sit next to him on the rug.

“Just in case what, Buddy?” I gently rest my hand on his back.

Cooper looks down, fiddling with the draw bridge at the front of his Lego castle. He picks up the tiny Lego queen and the tiny Lego prince, moves them into the center of the castle, and abruptly slams the draw bridge shut.

“Well, if you remember,” he says, “unicorn blood can bring you back to life even if you’re an inch from death. And I thought we should keep some on hand just in case COVID finds us.”

He looks up at me, hope and fear mingled in his beautiful eyes.

“Oh, that’s right,” I respond, squeezing his shoulder. “Good thinking.”

He favors me with a tremulous smile. I stand, reach out for his hand, and help him to his feet.

“C’mon. Let’s see if Costco can add it to our grocery order this week.”

the worms contemplate

day dawned dour

patter of rain splatters on

my window woke me

long before the alarm

the harm to my psyche severe

my mood muddled

in puddles left in landscape dips

 

worms wriggle across my drive

congregating to contemplate this spate

of soaking weather

and whether to return to grass or

sacrifice their lives on

treacherous asphalt beneath

beneath a lumbering car

Bubble Moon

 

The bubble moon rose

and froze

white on the indigo sky.

 

No male visage

smiled out,

but feminine arcs,

concentric

crests and caves

graced her surface.

 

She glanced off ponds

amid flowered fields

and glassy windows

set in sleeping houses

bringing sweet dreams

to all below.

Memory

 She traced by her past. A straight line here. An arc there. A hint of something forgotten. A subtle bite at the edge of memory.

Something flitted past the edge of her vision, but in the instant it took her to turn her head, whatever it was disappeared.

Kara recalled her mother stating that, “Growing old wasn’t for sissies.” Although the comment was usually accompanied by a wry smile, the reality was incontrovertible. Mother had fought age with each strand of her dyed black hair and a determination worthy of an Olympic athlete. When she died last year, at the age of 65, it was with a roar. But mother had always lived life to the hilt. Maybe that’s why Kara had done the same.

Kara turned five the year Mother turned 30. They celebrated with a single candle perched atop a cupcake. Mother’s friends were all there, filling ashtrays with soot, glasses with gin and the air with laughter and expletives. It was a helluva celebration. The next morning, Kara had her own private celebration. The fresh five-year-old was up at 8:00 and while her mother slept, Kara collected the cups, guzzling any remains before stacking them by the sink. She was woozy by 8:30 and looking for more by 10:00. Mother slept until noon.

From there, life rolled on. By eight she was filching cigarettes from ash trays and warm beer from the ever-present case on the porch. At 11 she smoked her first joint, shared with her by her mother’s boyfriend of the moment. By 13 she was popping uppers. From there it was a short trip to harder and harder drugs until she woke up at 24, a worn-out bag of bones, selling what flesh she had left to finance her next high. And pregnant. This time, too far along for an abortion. She gave the baby to social services and walked away. But she couldn’t forget.

She thought often of the girl she’d sweated to birth. Tiny and wrinkled and carted away as she squalled, too soon to see her eyes. It was for the best. She knew it, but she wondered if that tiny girl grew into a good life. A healthy person. She hoped so.

Kara took a last drag on her cigarette. The tidy breeze snagged the smoke and dispersed it in the atmosphere. Rehab hadn’t been easy, but she was determined to make it this time, or die trying, roaring and kicking and spitting.

She stood and walked into the building, followed by the shadow of who she’d been, her soul pricked by the memory.