Scissors

[sonnet-esque]

Into the night we drank and stained our clothes
with warm wine and scotch and champagne from your brother.
The TV sat lonely, playing yesterday’s shows
repeating themselves, one after another.
You talked often, and mentioned many trips.
Your hair was long, you’d dyed it blonde again.
I pulled out the scissors, giving imaginary snips,
and you shrieked, and smiled over your champagne.
Some hours passed, the scissors still on the table;
I stared at their shape and you picked them up.
With thin limbs swaying, you stood suddenly, unstable.
“Cut my hair,” you said. “We’ll put it in a measuring cup.”
If not for the wine, I would’ve never dared.
But at six a.m., there it was: four cups of yellow hair.

Lions

[blank verse]

I saw a man get eaten at the zoo.
People screamed and ran, but I stood still, just
waiting for you to return from the hot
dog stand. You forgot my relish. We watched
the police cars come screaming down the street.
They made us leave with no refund, and you
were angry. A cop asked me if I saw
where the lion went, and I told him no.
Later you whispered, “I hope he got away.”

A Sestina for Miss Pitiful

[sestina]

There are moments when she wishes to break
everything in the house - dishes, lamps, whatever she can find,
to see the delicate porcelain patterns come crashing down.
There are moments when she wishes to create something
beautiful. Something she can come home to.
And yet, these moments always pass, nothing ever comes of them.

Each day seems the same, looking back on them.
Her life isn’t difficult, but still, she wants a break
from the mundane, the fits of rage, the lost belongings she can’t find.
She catches herself always looking down
at the ground, or her feet. She runs into things.
She watches ants; wonders where they’re crawling to.

Sometimes she has tea with a friend or two,
but she feels she can’t relate to them.
One is always cheerful, the other complains of a heart that’s broken.
A person she can talk to has always been hard to find -
her mother is vacationing in Africa, and her psychologist puts her down.
They both have more important things.

Meals for one are dismal things.
She once had a fiance, but he grew tired of her, too,
and left her with the property that once belonged to both of them.
These are some of the things she would often like to break,
but a bicycle for two is just too hard to find.
She tried to ride it alone once, but kept falling down.

Her mother sent her pillows of down,
but her cat saw them as playthings.
My cat likes killing birds, so why not goose pillows, too,
she thought, and she had laughed.
Her cat was killed a week later, when someone failed to brake.
The driver was never found.

I Have Measured Out My Life With Coffee Spoons

[villanelle]

A breakfast of coffee and sugar, alone.
Her large house is so empty this year.
The creek gurgles, softly, over the stones.

She painted the house the color of bone
and left out birdseed for the deer.
A breakfast of coffee and sugar, alone.

She does not care how tall the grass has grown;
she puts old pearl earrings in her ears.
Still, the creek gurgles, softly, over the stones.

She has been here on her own
for a while. She has seen the geese disappear.
A breakfast of coffee and sugar, alone.

It has been a long time since a party was thrown,
but she remembers them dancing under the chandelier.
The creek gurgles, softly, over the stones.
A breakfast of coffee and sugar, alone.

Hiding From Tornadoes

We used to hide
in the downstairs half-bath
and listen, as outside
tornadoes made their path
through neighborhoods and elms.

My mom would wake me,
softly, and carry me down the wooden stairs.
In our three acres of yard, we didn’t have one tree
near the house, but we still hid there,
away from the windows, all four of us.

Framed pictures would rattle against the walls,
and the sky would become a dense grey curtain.
My parents would venture into the hall,
to get a flashlight, or the radio, to be more certain
that we would be okay, there was no need to worry.

I felt slightly guilty, sitting barefoot on the cold tile,
because I found it exciting: to hear the sirens
warning people, to sit in the dark for awhile.

In school, we’d learned to cover our heads
with a book, in case debris began flying.
But it never did, and everyone would
return to class, pretending not to be disappointed.

Dentist, Gambler, Gunfighter

[elegy]

You are a mythological figure from the Old West,
forever coughing up whiskey and dealing Faro,
with one hand resting
on a double barrel under the table.

The hands that once were so quick
with teeth on 56 Elm Street,
are now folded primly against your chest,
where you lay in an uncertain grave.

Where would you have lived
in this day and time?
Las Vegas could not contain you;
two guns blazing, tie and diamond stickpin always in place.

On Friday nights, I like to think
that I, too, can gamble and win.
Whenever I pull a large pile of chips
across the felt, I think of you.

You died alone, feverish and sallow in sockfeet.
No Wyatt Earp or Big Nose Kate at your side,
no longer anyone’s huckleberry:
“Well I’ll be damned. This is funny.”

The House in Heatherwood

[ode]

You stood huge and white,
the Southern Victorian queen
of three grass-green acres;
a dusty driveway snaking through.

Your porch served as a home
to faded rocking chairs,
children eating frozen sweet tea,
and dogs hiding from fireworks.

Your treasures were many:
a sweltering cubby hole filled with stuffed animals,
an attic with cotton candy walls,
and two staircases: one carpet, one oak.

For twelve years you were
our tornado shelter,
the walls for our calendars,
the setting for birthday parties,
and the last place
we were a family.

Five Revelations

(inspired by Dean Young's "Ten Inspirations")

1. You decide to take a walk.
You have no shoes, umbrella,
sunglasses, sidewalk, or
estimated time of arrival.
You sell your cockatoo back
to the pet store.

2. You want a tuna fish sandwich.
You do not have any bread,
mayonnaise, or tuna. No can opener,
no sharks. You drive to the store,
buy lobsters, and listen to them
scream as they fall into the blistering water.
You have no idea how to eat them.

3. You want to send your brother
a care package. You can’t remember
his favorite candy, magazines, or
songs. You can’t find any photographs
of the two of you together.
You drink a whole bottle of wine instead.

4. You decide to make a stuffed animal.
You have needles, thread,
cotton batting, button-eyes,
and a wildlife encyclopedia.
You begin making a blue whale,
to scale.

5. You decide to fall in love.
You have no boy or girl,
no witticisms or movie tickets.
Just a house full of corduroy whale.
You stare at strangers on the subway,
for a week, until you catch your own eye
in the window’s reflection.