Uriah: light of the world, a golden friend on his chest, stitched into his being like a memory. Books in hand, pencil shavings all down his front, a smile on his velveteen lips, his chipped tooth gleaming in the sun. He sighs the summer out. His days are numbered in setting suns, in beaches he will never see, in stark, austere walls and brick buildings.
Uriah: a shell of 13 years, eyes smudged in charcoal, warm honey irises vibrating through his skull. A gaunt face, a lonely ghost, a shadow of who he once was. Shoved into a shoebox, pressed into a wall, hidden in the open air. He sucks up frost through his punctured left lung. His days are colored red and white, blood and snow, fire and ash.
Uriah: desiccated, barren landscape, tongue twisted out of his mouth, lolling as if out of boredom. Spindly fingers resting on his chest, over his heart, around his love, curled and clutched about a dream. Dirt under his fingernails, tangled in his hair, beneath his eyelids. His arms are angular, crooked, bowed and thin like a pile of sticks, a pen on a desk, a rifle leaning against a door.
Uriah: my brother, a blessing, a glow, a light.
A Light.
The Lord is my Light.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Fleeting
When you were three and you sat in your mother’s lap during the dry season,
And the sun was soft as corn silk, soaking through your eyelids and making everything red,
And your mother’s rough, large hands curved the blade of a paring knife around green apples,
As she sat in the kitchen preparing the pie for when your father came home from work,
You marveled at the glistening sweat on her forehead, how every bead of perspiration caught the light in just the right way.
When you were nine and you rode your bike through the neighborhood wearing your cape,
And your mother called to you from the front porch, yelling at Superman to come inside,
And you could smell the electricity in the air and how damp the world was becoming,
As droplets pounded your back and slid down your neck into your shirt,
You spread your arms wide and let the wind ripple across your skin as a loud crow slipped through your lips.
When you were sixteen and made the monumental mistake of kissing some girl you didn’t like,
And her hair was rank with the overwhelming scent of strawberries, mingling with the smell of your mother’s laundry detergent,
And your lips, chapped and cracked, moved with hers and you could taste her sticky lip gloss,
As your hand cupped the back of her neck and you let your thumb trace the length of her jaw,
You wondered how your heart could possibly beat so loud and so fast, and you were sure that she would hear it, too.
When you were twenty-five and your hand—clamped between bone and muscle and skin in your wife’s iron grasp—fell limp, blood vessels bursting,
And she screamed and pushed and screamed and breathed, doing nothing for your nerves,
And you heard the sudden gasp and the fractional second of silence before joy drizzled into your every pore,
As you held your tiny, purple baby girl in your arms and she squirmed and wailed with life,
You had to take a moment to catch your breath and question how anyone could love something so much without exploding.
When you were forty-nine and you eyed the young man standing next to your daughter suspiciously,
And you zeroed in on her hand resting comfortably in his, so casually, as if the ring on her finger were a freckle she’d had all her life,
And your wife placed her hand lightly on your knee as if it might keep you in your seat,
As you held your breath and steadied yourself for the blow you were sure was coming,
You tried to listen to what they were saying, but in your head all you could see was a much smaller version of the young woman in front of you, with her hair tangled like a rat’s nest and tears shimmering on her cheeks in the moonlight as she crawled into bed with you.
When you were sixty-seven and you balanced a precarious little boy on your knee,
And the sun was streaming in through the curtains, shedding gold light on the bright eyed child tugging at your beard,
And you could barely hear the sound of your family singing to you, though you could still smell the waxy sweetness of candles melting on a cake,
As the little one helped you blow out the flames and make a wish and smoke slithered into the air,
You smiled at the overpowering sense of joy that filled the room, how every face seemed brighter.
When you were ninety-one and you lay next to your wife in bed,
And the window was open, letting in the summer breeze along with the sound of crickets and the woodsy scent of night,
And you watched her eyes moving beneath their lids like a quiet mouse scurrying beneath a sheet,
As she breathed and mumbled in her sleep and you thought she might be saying some variation of your name,
You looked at the ceiling, felt the warmth of her wrinkled palm in your hand, followed the raised ridges of her veins with your fingers,
Breathed in every memory you possibly could,
Allowed peace to finally sink in,
And closed your eyes for the last time.
And the sun was soft as corn silk, soaking through your eyelids and making everything red,
And your mother’s rough, large hands curved the blade of a paring knife around green apples,
As she sat in the kitchen preparing the pie for when your father came home from work,
You marveled at the glistening sweat on her forehead, how every bead of perspiration caught the light in just the right way.
When you were nine and you rode your bike through the neighborhood wearing your cape,
And your mother called to you from the front porch, yelling at Superman to come inside,
And you could smell the electricity in the air and how damp the world was becoming,
As droplets pounded your back and slid down your neck into your shirt,
You spread your arms wide and let the wind ripple across your skin as a loud crow slipped through your lips.
When you were sixteen and made the monumental mistake of kissing some girl you didn’t like,
And her hair was rank with the overwhelming scent of strawberries, mingling with the smell of your mother’s laundry detergent,
And your lips, chapped and cracked, moved with hers and you could taste her sticky lip gloss,
As your hand cupped the back of her neck and you let your thumb trace the length of her jaw,
You wondered how your heart could possibly beat so loud and so fast, and you were sure that she would hear it, too.
When you were twenty-five and your hand—clamped between bone and muscle and skin in your wife’s iron grasp—fell limp, blood vessels bursting,
And she screamed and pushed and screamed and breathed, doing nothing for your nerves,
And you heard the sudden gasp and the fractional second of silence before joy drizzled into your every pore,
As you held your tiny, purple baby girl in your arms and she squirmed and wailed with life,
You had to take a moment to catch your breath and question how anyone could love something so much without exploding.
When you were forty-nine and you eyed the young man standing next to your daughter suspiciously,
And you zeroed in on her hand resting comfortably in his, so casually, as if the ring on her finger were a freckle she’d had all her life,
And your wife placed her hand lightly on your knee as if it might keep you in your seat,
As you held your breath and steadied yourself for the blow you were sure was coming,
You tried to listen to what they were saying, but in your head all you could see was a much smaller version of the young woman in front of you, with her hair tangled like a rat’s nest and tears shimmering on her cheeks in the moonlight as she crawled into bed with you.
When you were sixty-seven and you balanced a precarious little boy on your knee,
And the sun was streaming in through the curtains, shedding gold light on the bright eyed child tugging at your beard,
And you could barely hear the sound of your family singing to you, though you could still smell the waxy sweetness of candles melting on a cake,
As the little one helped you blow out the flames and make a wish and smoke slithered into the air,
You smiled at the overpowering sense of joy that filled the room, how every face seemed brighter.
When you were ninety-one and you lay next to your wife in bed,
And the window was open, letting in the summer breeze along with the sound of crickets and the woodsy scent of night,
And you watched her eyes moving beneath their lids like a quiet mouse scurrying beneath a sheet,
As she breathed and mumbled in her sleep and you thought she might be saying some variation of your name,
You looked at the ceiling, felt the warmth of her wrinkled palm in your hand, followed the raised ridges of her veins with your fingers,
Breathed in every memory you possibly could,
Allowed peace to finally sink in,
And closed your eyes for the last time.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Crape Melody
A celebration of the Holiest Host
You were born on the shores of the Ivory Coast.
Your brother twisted his leg in the waves
And you dove from the cliffs to the water to save him.
Beneath the winding underwater glory
Was a heartbeat that whispered your name like a story.
Your mother called to you, tongue curled back
Her windpipe was broken,
And shattered,
And cracked.
And the sea whip that lifted its head to your scent,
It claimed you as hero, but that label was bent.
You made promises out of the back of your head
And you willed time to revive something long-dead.
The hours came and went and your voice harped the sea,
Like the foam in your throat, a crape melody,
Soft crinoline wings and sweet salt on his breath.
You tried to breathe back, but there was nothing left.
You think now of how his body felt so small,
How memories can break in the weight of a fall.
And the fall seemed to cascade down from the skies.
It felt like forever, but too fast for goodbyes.
You were born on the shores of the Ivory Coast.
Your brother twisted his leg in the waves
And you dove from the cliffs to the water to save him.
Beneath the winding underwater glory
Was a heartbeat that whispered your name like a story.
Your mother called to you, tongue curled back
Her windpipe was broken,
And shattered,
And cracked.
And the sea whip that lifted its head to your scent,
It claimed you as hero, but that label was bent.
You made promises out of the back of your head
And you willed time to revive something long-dead.
The hours came and went and your voice harped the sea,
Like the foam in your throat, a crape melody,
Soft crinoline wings and sweet salt on his breath.
You tried to breathe back, but there was nothing left.
You think now of how his body felt so small,
How memories can break in the weight of a fall.
And the fall seemed to cascade down from the skies.
It felt like forever, but too fast for goodbyes.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Wolf Ramblings (AKA: wtf, brain?)
Is that the moon? Am I a werewolf yet? It blinks Morse code at me through the trees, quietly shouting run run run run.
It's only half-full. I can't be yet.
But soon.
I had a teacher once who said her moods changed with the phases of the moon. But she was also a witch. Or at least she was New Age. She always smelled like incense and she walked like she was more comfortable on a broom. She would pull the wind behind her when she walked. And she had this tender way of speaking, like she could put you in a trance.
But now I see it--the moon, that is--and the clouds are moving, shifting. When they part like that--like smoke in front of a mirror--or when I see the moon in the blue sky between tree branches or reflected in water, something in me aches for werewolves to be real. My throat wants for snow and paw prints and fur and that woodsy, coppery smell that follows a wolf.
Have you ever heard of otherkin? They're people who believe they were an animal or mythical creature in a past life. Most otherkin say they were a wolf before; I've heard some say they were once a dragon. It's mostly an excuse for people to wear thick black eyeliner and yellow contacts and to howl at the moon in their backyards. But a lot of them say they can feel their wolf ears or tail like a phantom limb. How sad to have lost something you never had, but to still feel its presence. To know that no one else can feel or see what you do. Isn't that some definition of insanity?
It's only half-full. I can't be yet.
But soon.
I had a teacher once who said her moods changed with the phases of the moon. But she was also a witch. Or at least she was New Age. She always smelled like incense and she walked like she was more comfortable on a broom. She would pull the wind behind her when she walked. And she had this tender way of speaking, like she could put you in a trance.
But now I see it--the moon, that is--and the clouds are moving, shifting. When they part like that--like smoke in front of a mirror--or when I see the moon in the blue sky between tree branches or reflected in water, something in me aches for werewolves to be real. My throat wants for snow and paw prints and fur and that woodsy, coppery smell that follows a wolf.
Have you ever heard of otherkin? They're people who believe they were an animal or mythical creature in a past life. Most otherkin say they were a wolf before; I've heard some say they were once a dragon. It's mostly an excuse for people to wear thick black eyeliner and yellow contacts and to howl at the moon in their backyards. But a lot of them say they can feel their wolf ears or tail like a phantom limb. How sad to have lost something you never had, but to still feel its presence. To know that no one else can feel or see what you do. Isn't that some definition of insanity?
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Zombs
He comes around the same time every night, scratching at the windows and doors like he's trying to get in. I always wonder why he keeps coming back here to this house. Almost like he knows. Sometimes when I hear him moaning outside, I think he might be saying my name. Maia...Maia...
But then I remember: the dead can't talk.
You'd think, what with the miracle of the reanimation of a corpse, they'd be able to talk, tell us what they want.
"Brains," Cory says. "All they want is brains. Their minds are stuck in hungry beast mode." Cory's always saying things like that.
I remember the first time they came out at night, dragging their rotted limbs through the street and across the lawn, a whole slew of them--and all I could think was, where did they call come from? Why this house? Of all the houses on this block, why this one?
But back to him. I can hear him now, shuffling up the porch steps and I turn over my wrist to check the time. 2:15. Like clockwork.
I sit up and see Cory standing by the window. He's pulled back one of the blankets we use to cover the windows and is peering out through a crack in the boards. His face is hard, which makes me sad because it means he's beginning to lose hope. When the dead come out, he's usually the first to make a joke. Now his face is all thin lips and furrowed brows.
"Cory," I whisper. "Go back to sleep."
He doesn't move or look at me. The doorknob jiggles and Cory's face creases more.
"Do you think he knows?" he says. I shiver and pull the blankets up around me. Cory must be cold, and I think about getting up to put a blanket around him, but I don't want to risk seeing what he's seeing right now.
"I don't know, Cory," I say. "I don't think so. I don't think they can know anything." He sighs and his breath fogs up the sliver of window glass.
After a moment he says, "You'd shoot me right? If I ever..."
"You won't. It won't happen."
"Maia." He turns to me, his face still hard and creased. "It can happen," he says, gesturing to the window. The door handle stopped jiggling a minute ago, but I can hear him pawing at the door now. He moans and again my mind tricks me into thinking he's still in there, still human underneath everything.
"That won't happen to you," I say. "We're smarter now. We're stronger."
Cory looks out the window again and mutters, "Dad was strong." I can't look at him. His face already feels so different.
"Cory, if I can't even put a bullet in him, how am I going to put a bullet in you?"
He sighs and I can feel the worry in him stretch across the room. I look up and see him nodding.
"Go back to sleep," I say. He nods again and touches his fingers to the small gap between the boards covering the window.
"Goodnight, Dad," he says, and he wanders back over to the couch to sleep.
Within a few minutes, I can hear his breathing deepen and I know he's asleep. When I hear the front porch steps creak, I whisper, "Goodnight, Dad," and I kick myself for thinking he says it back.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Prayer Chapel
Hope on wings, purity and peace
Feathers rain in the chapel tonight
Red life stretches over the floor
My forehead presses into the wood floorboards
Voices echo across the walls and pews
Tongues profess great things
We sing in our souls and the glass shakes
We open our arms and light pours out
We raise our heads
and the world stops for a moment
to praise with us
Feathers rain in the chapel tonight
Red life stretches over the floor
My forehead presses into the wood floorboards
Voices echo across the walls and pews
Tongues profess great things
We sing in our souls and the glass shakes
We open our arms and light pours out
We raise our heads
and the world stops for a moment
to praise with us
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
How Are You?
How are you? is such an empty phrase. It rolls off the tongue with as much ease as a breath and with even less meaning or importance.
And the automatic answer is just as banal. I'm good. I'm doing all right. I'm fine. Good, how are you?
How are we supposed to get close to people with such false greetings? I know you don't really want to know how I'm doing. You expect I'm good or the equivalent. And if I were to say something a little deeper (Well, I kind of feel like I have no direction and that my life is spiraling into an endless Medieval staircase of despair and tragedy), you would think I'm being dramatic. Or starving for attention. Or being an emotional vampire. (Don't you hate it when people call you that?)
And even worse is when you know someone wants something from you, but they use How are you? to sugar-coat the fact that they kind of just want to use you. They nod and smile and act like they seriously care for you, but you know that they're just waiting to get their foot in the door so they can take some part of you.
(But then, I have to ask myself, would I feel better if they were blatantly honest and just bulldozed me with their request without taking the time to pretend to care about my life?
Probably not.)
Or possibly even more worser than "even worse" is when they've already asked you for whatever it is they want and then they tack on a How are you? so they don't feel so bad about having not asked you before. Like the afterthought was really the whole reason they wanted to talk to you, but now that we got all that "business" stuff out of the way, we can get to the heart of the matter.
I don't have one-on-one conversations with people. There are few people I experience beyond this how-are-you-I-see-you-every-day-and-don't-really-care level because this is what I'm afraid of: you see me a certain way--this surface person comprised of I'm goods and Life's great!s--and if I were to speak to you or be with you on a more personal level, I don't think you'd like me. I think you'd be bored to tears with all the problems of my life because they're so trivial.
Once upon a time, my friend and I developed a theory about people. It was a way to determine quickly whether a person was trustworthy or not. There are two types of people: jello people and tree people. Obviously, the jello people are like jello--wobbly and unstable, sort of transparent, like you can't see all of them. You can never quite grasp them because they're unpredictable.
The tree people are those who are rooted and firm. They know who they are and you know who they are because you can see their leaves and their bark and all the animals living inside them. They're upfront and straightforward. Trustworthy. Stable. Safe.
And then, we qualified, there are those who appear as trees, but are in fact jello, and vice versa. (So really, there are four types of people.)
The fact is this: you can't really trust anyone. They may appear as one thing, but really be another. But at the same time, you HAVE to trust people. Otherwise you become isolated and alone and lonely, and you can only see people through the gauzy film of How are you?
This rant kind of went a little sideways without a real conclusion (like most all my rants), and it probably sounded really dramatic and depressing, but, hey, whatever.
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