Grammar of Desire

Beneath the tree's shadow

two souls study the

grammar of desire.

They experiment with 

lips and hands,

not thinking,

only feeling.

We, perched in topmost branches,

spread our wings and soar,

released at last.

Delays

Clara clatters down the hall, one heel on her battered shoes an eighth-inch shorter than the other, the rubber lift having worn off. Her blue and red dyed hair clashes with her traffic cone orange jacket, but she doesn’t care. She loves color and revels in visual cacophony. 

She reaches her office door and bumps it hard with her hip as she turns the knob. Reluctant hinges grudgingly stutter the door to a partial open. She meant to fix that last week. 

Clara pushes through and drops her sack lunch (today it’s egg salad on rye along with a side of mincemeat pie, dangerously close to expiration) on her desk. The floor is cluttered with boxes and files. The grimy high set windows allow the barest trace of sunlight through. Maybe next week she'd climb the rickety office ladder and take a swipe at them.

With a sigh she plops in her ancient, creaky office chair. Missing the bus had made her late for work. Again. At least there were no meetings today that she'd need to rush off to.

A knock on her door startles her and she swings her chair to the left, banging both legs in the process. She swears a blue streak as a head, topped by lustrous black hair above a handsome face and startling blue eyes, peeks past the door and into her domain. It is at this precise moment that the seat of her chair chooses to disengage from the bottom (the large screw that had come out yesterday sat atop her desk waiting for re-insertion), and she toppled backward, legs akimbo. Clara instantly and irrevocably regretting her decision to delay shopping for new undergarments. 

Temptress Spring

Winter descends

decisive and bold

cold blowing and

candles lit to offset

shrinking daylight.

He is direct.

 

Spring, however, is capricious,

tantalizing and teasing with

tastes of warming temperatures

to tempt us from our dens.

But suns warming rays are fleeting

and daffodils suffer below

late snow blankets.

Last fall’s leaves and winter trash

rush across lawns to gather at fence lines,

hedgerows and roadside ditches.

She is a diva, constantly changing

her mind and guise.

 

She peeks from cloud covered skies,

curious how long we will wait.

 

health issues and car trouble

sitting in the ED waiting room

listening to a family talk

   dad and seizures

   car trouble and repair mistakes

   recipes and Hallmark channel movies.

 

I wait, alone, to find out

   why my uncle’s leg has doubled in diameter

   why he is in excruciating pain

   why they can't give him the test he needs

And wish it was a car problem.

After the Snow

 clear march sky

 

 

sun reflects off

 

settled snow

 

 

finches feed on seeds

 

and sing

 

 

opportunities abound

Season

Season wandered her way throughout the year. Her moods shifted from cool to benign, balmy to frigid, steamy to stormy. She was changeable, to say the least.

One spring, she brought a freezing damp and withered the tulips who had foolishly begun to open up. After that, she moved with loving tenderness, nurturing and encouraging nascent ideas and growth.

As spring gave way to summer, she shone. Brilliant in the high blue sky, sun beamed down, grass grew tall and lush, crops grew sweet, deer grew fat. She had her tempers of course, sending wind swirling and ripping across fields and through neighborhoods until she was spent and her mood cleared. Stars bloomed in the sky as crickets sang.

By autumn she grew tired. Color blazed across her countenance then fades to brown and dropped to damp earth. Flowers ceased to bloom. Nights grew cold. She grew feeble.

Finally, she laid down and slept, left to dream of returning youth. 

Smile

 “Why don’t you smile,” he asked. “I bet you’re pretty when you smile.”

Right! Why would I bother smiling for him? He smelled like whiskey and cheese. His implication that I should try to make myself appealing for him was appalling.

We sat alone in the booth. The jukebox on the other side of the spare room issued no rollicking rock, no beautiful blues, no jumping jazz. It was silent and hulking, half hidden in shadows where lights should be at play.

“My grampa used to own this place.” He looked around, wistful. “I was here a lot as a kid. It was the only way to see my folks.”

He touched my wrist, reminding me of the three-day old bruise residing there. I withdrew my arm and wrapped it around my middle.

“Would you get me something to drink?” I kept my eyes cast down as I made the request.

He grunted something but got up to fetch me a glass of something that sloshed as he set it down.

The glass was heavy, likely an original from when this dump first opened. I took a sip. Lukewarm soda water from the tap behind the bar, I guessed.

“Some ice sure would be good,” I said. “Do you think you could get some for me?”

Another grunt, this time louder, followed by the crack of worn vinyl as he left the bench. Thankfully he was in a solicitous mood.

I slid over, the bench silent under my insignificant frame, and stood. He was just turning toward me when I hit the back of his head with the weighty glass. The tray of shriveled ice he had scavenged from the ancient freezer behind the bar scattered as he slumped and slid toward the floor at my feet, a rivulet of red springing from his scalp.

I turned him over and dug through his shirt pocket for the key to the padlock he’d put on the door. As I wrapped my fingers around it and pulled it free from the cloth his hand closed around my ankle. With my free foot I stomped down on his throat and fled toward the door, turned the key in the lock, flung open the door, and ran to the parking lot.

Nature was in the process of reclaiming the slab of asphalt where cars and trucks had parked before the highway was rerouted. A For Sale sign swung, lopsided, in the hot wind. Storm clouds gathered in the west. I looked at the long stretch of empty road and barren land wondering how far it would be to civilization and whether I had the strength to get there. There was only one way to find out.

I began to run.