Old Writing (late 05 thru early 07)

out of doors
the world drips like an oil painting
on its side
rain falls down onto the roof
no end in sight

//

this is growing up,
the inconvenience of changed voices
and new bodies we don't
recognize
new terrain
strange to the touch

//

specks of dawn
in the folds of your dress
creeping down your back
slow insects

//

10/17/05

winter creeps
from its hollow-tree hiding place
and wraps its pale, glowing arms
around the landscape
in a blue embrace

//

there is daylight on the water
there are remnants here

//

your 3am eyes
look up at me
they are caved in and your
voice is cracked
witching hour has passed
and we are left alone
with the burnt out candles
and spells finished and cast

//

He was a creature of habit, as all old men are, brought up one certain way and then continued in the path of habit for so many years that to be anything but habitual would be alien, strange. For years, even before the death of his Alice in an accident that kept him from riding Ferris wheels at the state fair, Henry would wake early and in the darkness of morning jog the two-and-one-half miles that led to the graveyard. There were always graves to visit, bred from the long association with unhappy people eager to take the first available train to somewhere else.

//

We are parked on a street, the name of which I can never recall, the world closest to us visible only by the meager offerings of your headlights, and we are watching the lights on the pier shimmer in the ocean beneath them.
Your hand is cold, you unbutton my sweater and struggle with the ties on my blouse in a fumbling first attempt to touch me. I let you.

//

don't look at what they took from us

//

her wrists are fragile, made of air and wood and glass. in time, she will become a memory, as cold and colorless as the tide of the tropics remains to me now

//

It had been a few years. Karen wasn't entirely sure she remembered the number, or that the phone in the booth would even work. It would be characteristic of god to knock down phone lines or cause a black out in order for her call to not reach home.
Two quarters in the slot and trembling fingers dial a number remembered from the darkness of past years. Hesitant ringing, quiet prayer to a god not entirely believed in. A familiar voice, rough with age.
"Hello?"
"Daddy?"
Silence on the other end. Hope that the line has not gone dead. It has. A click.
Karen hung the phone onto its receiver, leaning back onto the glass wall of the booth. It's dark in Pittsburgh, darker than any darkness in the suburbs, where every corner is guarded by the harsh yellow light of a street lamp, keeping kids safe from the unforgiving choices made by Death. Here he sweeps his victims swiftly as if they never existed. Being here, it is possible they never did. It's darker than the corners of the school Kevin took her to make out after the football games, still sweaty in his uniform, pushing her pleated skirt higher up her thighs, tugging at the Tuesday panties she wore on Friday.
She had been class valedictorian, she had won scholarships and science fairs and the hearts of every boy she passed in the halls. She gave it up for Kevin, followed him out to Pennsylvania because he said they had a life together, they could have babies and a picket fence and whatever she wanted. She said she wanted garden gnomes and little babies and flowers on the window sill and a kitchen that looked out on a garden where her babies could play. He said Sure thing, babe.
Kevin had friends with money and a place to crash, so they stayed with Michelle and Jess for a year and Kevin worked delivering booze to restaurants.
Karen thought about this and looked at her watch. Counted the hours since Kevin threw her out on her ass. Three hours of unfamiliar streets and the kindness of strangers with a few bucks to spare.

//