COPYRIGHT
PRETTY BABY
Mazie Louise Montgomery
A Collection of Short Prose
Dicey Brown Media Publications
Raleigh, North Carolina
Online Copyright 2009, Mazie Louise Montgomery
This book was originally published in soft cover by Dicey Brown Media in 2005.
PRETTY BABY
Names, characters, places, and incidents of these poems are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
DICEY BROWN PUBLICATIONS, INC.
Raleigh, North Carolina
Copyright © 2005 by Mazie Louise Montgomery
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of the following publications where certain stories of the collection have first appeared: “One Summer in Canada,” and “Perfect for Something Like That,” Bullfight Review.
Mazie Louise Montgomery
A Collection of Short Prose
Dicey Brown Media Publications
Raleigh, North Carolina
Online Copyright 2009, Mazie Louise Montgomery
This book was originally published in soft cover by Dicey Brown Media in 2005.
PRETTY BABY
Names, characters, places, and incidents of these poems are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
DICEY BROWN PUBLICATIONS, INC.
Raleigh, North Carolina
Copyright © 2005 by Mazie Louise Montgomery
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of the following publications where certain stories of the collection have first appeared: “One Summer in Canada,” and “Perfect for Something Like That,” Bullfight Review.
CONTENTS
CONTENTS
L'HOMME GOURMAND
ROCKET MAN
BRUISE
FIREMAN
PRETTY BABY
EXCEPTIONS TO THE RULE
THE ECONOMY OF LINE
SHIVER
SHEEN
APPLE TREE
MON COEUR ROUGE
NORWAY
HAMID
A BRIDLE FOR YOUR TONGUE
ONE SUMMER IN CANADA
PERFECT FOR SOMETHING LIKE THAT
YES
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED MY LOVER
FOUR STORIES UP
IN SOLITUDE
I HAD MUCH BETTER COME WITH YOU
L'HOMME GOURMAND
ROCKET MAN
BRUISE
FIREMAN
PRETTY BABY
EXCEPTIONS TO THE RULE
THE ECONOMY OF LINE
SHIVER
SHEEN
APPLE TREE
MON COEUR ROUGE
NORWAY
HAMID
A BRIDLE FOR YOUR TONGUE
ONE SUMMER IN CANADA
PERFECT FOR SOMETHING LIKE THAT
YES
LAST NIGHT I DREAMED MY LOVER
FOUR STORIES UP
IN SOLITUDE
I HAD MUCH BETTER COME WITH YOU
L'HOMME GOURMAND
L'HOMME GOURMAND
Oh my sheets, what a mess my sheets, rumpled and slung to the floor, red like candied apples and shining like my red heart but more red than apples these sheets, more the red of cherry-pie filling, more the red of the shirt I am wearing, the shirt of a moody cowgirl. Her black boots, her pale skin, her red shirt. But I keep forgetting you have never seen this red shirt and you have never seen a cowgirl or these red sheets and how they shine but I do think you know the color of apples. I do think you know how they shine like the moon. And I do think you have had more than your fair share of cherry pie and I think that when you were a boy you daydreamed about moody cowgirls and the dust and the sand of the desert, red hot, rocking your eyes to sleep. I think you imagined yourself a cowboy and not a good cowboy but a bad cowboy, a very bad cowboy, a thief, a rustler, stealing cherry pie from an unsuspecting cowgirl. I think you ate and ate your stolen cherry pie until your cheeks were red like two sour cherries. You ate until your belly was full and your heart was full and your tongue grew numb from the taste and people began to call you "l'homme gourmand" and you began to want something different, like a ham sandwich, or chocolate cake. But maybe you still asked for your chocolate cake with cherry icing and your ham sandwiches with a cherry on the side because once a boy gets a taste for cherry it is hard for him to turn his back on it for good. And oh the taste of cherries and the smell of cherries and the feel of the cherries on your tongue; large, round, extra-sweet cherries with purple-red flesh and a deep red skin; small heart-shaped cherries; fresh sour cherries found during the summer months at farmers' markets and roadside stands. It is all too much for a boy to take. Yes! The sheets, the sheets! Like apples, and cherries! So red! Shining like the moon, at night! And the moon, naughty moon, smiling down at a naughty boy and the naughty boy thinking: the sheets, oh the sheets, wet and shining, like the cherries
in my mouth.
Oh my sheets, what a mess my sheets, rumpled and slung to the floor, red like candied apples and shining like my red heart but more red than apples these sheets, more the red of cherry-pie filling, more the red of the shirt I am wearing, the shirt of a moody cowgirl. Her black boots, her pale skin, her red shirt. But I keep forgetting you have never seen this red shirt and you have never seen a cowgirl or these red sheets and how they shine but I do think you know the color of apples. I do think you know how they shine like the moon. And I do think you have had more than your fair share of cherry pie and I think that when you were a boy you daydreamed about moody cowgirls and the dust and the sand of the desert, red hot, rocking your eyes to sleep. I think you imagined yourself a cowboy and not a good cowboy but a bad cowboy, a very bad cowboy, a thief, a rustler, stealing cherry pie from an unsuspecting cowgirl. I think you ate and ate your stolen cherry pie until your cheeks were red like two sour cherries. You ate until your belly was full and your heart was full and your tongue grew numb from the taste and people began to call you "l'homme gourmand" and you began to want something different, like a ham sandwich, or chocolate cake. But maybe you still asked for your chocolate cake with cherry icing and your ham sandwiches with a cherry on the side because once a boy gets a taste for cherry it is hard for him to turn his back on it for good. And oh the taste of cherries and the smell of cherries and the feel of the cherries on your tongue; large, round, extra-sweet cherries with purple-red flesh and a deep red skin; small heart-shaped cherries; fresh sour cherries found during the summer months at farmers' markets and roadside stands. It is all too much for a boy to take. Yes! The sheets, the sheets! Like apples, and cherries! So red! Shining like the moon, at night! And the moon, naughty moon, smiling down at a naughty boy and the naughty boy thinking: the sheets, oh the sheets, wet and shining, like the cherries
in my mouth.
ROCKET MAN
ROCKET MAN
I know the moon is up there, far away. It is like a big yellow ball; how big it is, how perfect, how alone in a captive red sky. But I do not want the rocket man to take me up, invite me to sit in a tall, tall rocket, as tall as ten houses. I do not want to hear him say, “Come on in. Come into this little room.” I do not want to buckle myself up, to feel the push. Push. Push! I do not want to hear the rocket go boom. I do not want to know where I am. I do not want to look out. I do not want my rocket racing high away. I do not want my sky to be black. I do not want to ask, “What is that funny little blue thing down there, so far away?” I do not want to unhook my belt. I do not want to say, “OH!” as I float away. I do not want the rocket man to tell me quietly, “Up you go.”
I want the pull of the Earth to hold me down. I want to turn and turn and turn. Turning is what keeps things down. Down is more like home. At home you can eat and sleep. At home you can watch television, a show about the moon and the black sky and the rockets turning around the Earth. At home there is no one to ask, “How long will you be there? How long till you reach the moon?” At home there is no one to ask: “Soon?” I do not want to lie. I do not want to say, “As soon as the moon ship comes for me.” I do not want my moon ship to get away fast. I do not want the rockets of my moon ship to give me a big push. I do not want to be where there is nothing, not one thing to hold back my ship.
I do not want the BIG rockets to fire, to turn my moon ship around so it can land on its legs. I do not want the rocket man to quietly say, “Down you go.” There is no air out there. There is no way to breathe in the hot, hot days of the moon. There are no trees, no water at all. There is just deep, gray dust. Dust, dust, dust.
I do not want to put on a shiny silver space suit. I do not want to hear what the others on Earth have to say. There is nothing I want to tell them about the moon. I do not want to ride around in a funny looking moon car. I do not want to go for a ride in the high hills. There are many dish hills all over the moon. A funny looking moon car does not turn away from a dish hole. I do not want to go down into the hole. Down, down, down. Then up, up, up. I do not want to get out of my moon car. I do not want to climb to the top of the high moon hills. At home the hills are not quite so high. I do not want to hear the rocket man quietly say, “See? Up you go.”
I do not want the rocket man to build me a moon house, on top of a moon hill. I do not want to look out at the black sky. I do not want the rocket man to ask, “Do you see that big dot up there?” I do not want to know about Mars. Mars is a long, long way from the moon. How big it is, how perfect, like a big red ball, spinning and turning, alone in a black sky.
I know the moon is up there, far away. It is like a big yellow ball; how big it is, how perfect, how alone in a captive red sky. But I do not want the rocket man to take me up, invite me to sit in a tall, tall rocket, as tall as ten houses. I do not want to hear him say, “Come on in. Come into this little room.” I do not want to buckle myself up, to feel the push. Push. Push! I do not want to hear the rocket go boom. I do not want to know where I am. I do not want to look out. I do not want my rocket racing high away. I do not want my sky to be black. I do not want to ask, “What is that funny little blue thing down there, so far away?” I do not want to unhook my belt. I do not want to say, “OH!” as I float away. I do not want the rocket man to tell me quietly, “Up you go.”
I want the pull of the Earth to hold me down. I want to turn and turn and turn. Turning is what keeps things down. Down is more like home. At home you can eat and sleep. At home you can watch television, a show about the moon and the black sky and the rockets turning around the Earth. At home there is no one to ask, “How long will you be there? How long till you reach the moon?” At home there is no one to ask: “Soon?” I do not want to lie. I do not want to say, “As soon as the moon ship comes for me.” I do not want my moon ship to get away fast. I do not want the rockets of my moon ship to give me a big push. I do not want to be where there is nothing, not one thing to hold back my ship.
I do not want the BIG rockets to fire, to turn my moon ship around so it can land on its legs. I do not want the rocket man to quietly say, “Down you go.” There is no air out there. There is no way to breathe in the hot, hot days of the moon. There are no trees, no water at all. There is just deep, gray dust. Dust, dust, dust.
I do not want to put on a shiny silver space suit. I do not want to hear what the others on Earth have to say. There is nothing I want to tell them about the moon. I do not want to ride around in a funny looking moon car. I do not want to go for a ride in the high hills. There are many dish hills all over the moon. A funny looking moon car does not turn away from a dish hole. I do not want to go down into the hole. Down, down, down. Then up, up, up. I do not want to get out of my moon car. I do not want to climb to the top of the high moon hills. At home the hills are not quite so high. I do not want to hear the rocket man quietly say, “See? Up you go.”
I do not want the rocket man to build me a moon house, on top of a moon hill. I do not want to look out at the black sky. I do not want the rocket man to ask, “Do you see that big dot up there?” I do not want to know about Mars. Mars is a long, long way from the moon. How big it is, how perfect, like a big red ball, spinning and turning, alone in a black sky.
BRUISE
BRUISE
There is a bed, and a pair of black boots. There are sheets and pillows wrapped in a light blue, yellow flowers swinging loops around a tiny green vine. There is a beige carpet and a wooden dresser and a pair of sharp scissors on a desk in the corner. There is something familiar playing on the radio. There is a bottle of scotch. There is a dull white wall and an open window. There is laughter. There is a mouth and a tongue and the inner thigh once cut on a rusty barbed-wire fence. When she looks in his eyes she feels something at her heart, something much like the web of a spider, something much like a piece of caramel, stuck in the back of her teeth. When she tells him about her clothes smelling scorched he mentions three kittens in a boat, how their boat will turn face over if one of them moves. “What you smell is the little machine running the pictures, “ he says. “You are just making one mistake after another.” One of them says something about love; one of them says something about a black and white film playing downtown. There is a flash of something bright. Later there will be something purple, and then blue, and then a yellow that will remind her of the long train ride to work. Later there will nothing but words the color of salt and rubies.
There is a bed, and a pair of black boots. There are sheets and pillows wrapped in a light blue, yellow flowers swinging loops around a tiny green vine. There is a beige carpet and a wooden dresser and a pair of sharp scissors on a desk in the corner. There is something familiar playing on the radio. There is a bottle of scotch. There is a dull white wall and an open window. There is laughter. There is a mouth and a tongue and the inner thigh once cut on a rusty barbed-wire fence. When she looks in his eyes she feels something at her heart, something much like the web of a spider, something much like a piece of caramel, stuck in the back of her teeth. When she tells him about her clothes smelling scorched he mentions three kittens in a boat, how their boat will turn face over if one of them moves. “What you smell is the little machine running the pictures, “ he says. “You are just making one mistake after another.” One of them says something about love; one of them says something about a black and white film playing downtown. There is a flash of something bright. Later there will be something purple, and then blue, and then a yellow that will remind her of the long train ride to work. Later there will nothing but words the color of salt and rubies.
FIREMAN
FIREMAN
We begin with two lovers: a man and a woman, in bed and in love. The man is handsome; the woman is beautiful. His eyes are brown, hers are blue; both are quite striking, both draw stares from strangers on the street. She is a neuroscientist; he is a fireman with a Medical Master's Degree in Microbiology and Immunology. They both think "Immunology" is a strange looking word. They both like to play Scrabble and Monopoly. They both dislike chess. The man is married to a nondescript woman in her thirties who sells cosmetics at the Galleria mall; he dislikes the shade of her lipstick, and the shape of her feet. The woman is married to a poet. She dislikes the words he uses, like "platitudinous," and "medulla." The time is late night. They have just seen a movie, a teen flick neither one of them understood. They left before it ended. They are in a hotel room, kissing. They are interrupted by what they think is a knock on the door. They are both startled. No one knows they are there. The fireman hastily tries to put on his shoes. "You should put your pants on first," says the woman. The fireman looks for his underwear, tries to shush the woman. He is wearing one shoe and one sock, both on the same foot. "Be quiet," he says in a loud whisper. "It must be my mother." The woman seems confused. "I thought you said your mother was dead," she says. The fireman ignores what the woman has said. "Whoever it was," he says, "I think they are gone."
We end the next day: the woman is looking at a slide of T-cells; her husband calls and says, "We need to talk." The woman is not surprised. Her husband is a poet. He is very sensitive. Of his frequent phrases, "We need to talk" is his favorite. She says she will meet him at the McDonalds near her building at twelve, but she can't stay long. She is busy. She has an important job. At lunch, he begins the conversation. I found the most interesting phrase in a book this morning," he says, "inland city, isn't it beautiful?" The woman asks if this is why he wanted to see her. Tell me you think it's beautiful," he says. She does so, rolling her eyes. She grabs the edges of her tray, she has finished her Fillet-of-Fish with cheese and she is ready to go back to work. He grabs her wrist. "I know about him," he says. The woman shrugs. If the poet will give her a divorce, she will marry the fireman. The poet laughs. Does she think she will be happy with a fireman? The woman says she can be happy with anyone, but the fireman has professed his love, and she has done the same. The poet says it was once him she professed to love. The woman looks at the wrapper on her tray. "Fish is a strange looking word," she says, "don't you think?" The poet says it is a common word, and walks away. Later that night he writes a poem about his wife and titles it "Fillet-of-Fish"; he is dissatisfied with the result and throws it in the trash.
We begin with two lovers: a man and a woman, in bed and in love. The man is handsome; the woman is beautiful. His eyes are brown, hers are blue; both are quite striking, both draw stares from strangers on the street. She is a neuroscientist; he is a fireman with a Medical Master's Degree in Microbiology and Immunology. They both think "Immunology" is a strange looking word. They both like to play Scrabble and Monopoly. They both dislike chess. The man is married to a nondescript woman in her thirties who sells cosmetics at the Galleria mall; he dislikes the shade of her lipstick, and the shape of her feet. The woman is married to a poet. She dislikes the words he uses, like "platitudinous," and "medulla." The time is late night. They have just seen a movie, a teen flick neither one of them understood. They left before it ended. They are in a hotel room, kissing. They are interrupted by what they think is a knock on the door. They are both startled. No one knows they are there. The fireman hastily tries to put on his shoes. "You should put your pants on first," says the woman. The fireman looks for his underwear, tries to shush the woman. He is wearing one shoe and one sock, both on the same foot. "Be quiet," he says in a loud whisper. "It must be my mother." The woman seems confused. "I thought you said your mother was dead," she says. The fireman ignores what the woman has said. "Whoever it was," he says, "I think they are gone."
We end the next day: the woman is looking at a slide of T-cells; her husband calls and says, "We need to talk." The woman is not surprised. Her husband is a poet. He is very sensitive. Of his frequent phrases, "We need to talk" is his favorite. She says she will meet him at the McDonalds near her building at twelve, but she can't stay long. She is busy. She has an important job. At lunch, he begins the conversation. I found the most interesting phrase in a book this morning," he says, "inland city, isn't it beautiful?" The woman asks if this is why he wanted to see her. Tell me you think it's beautiful," he says. She does so, rolling her eyes. She grabs the edges of her tray, she has finished her Fillet-of-Fish with cheese and she is ready to go back to work. He grabs her wrist. "I know about him," he says. The woman shrugs. If the poet will give her a divorce, she will marry the fireman. The poet laughs. Does she think she will be happy with a fireman? The woman says she can be happy with anyone, but the fireman has professed his love, and she has done the same. The poet says it was once him she professed to love. The woman looks at the wrapper on her tray. "Fish is a strange looking word," she says, "don't you think?" The poet says it is a common word, and walks away. Later that night he writes a poem about his wife and titles it "Fillet-of-Fish"; he is dissatisfied with the result and throws it in the trash.
EXCEPTIONS TO THE RULE
EXCEPTIONS TO THE RULE
Yesterday I went to the circus. A clown was standing on a chair. One of his shoes was yellow, the other was green. The clown was talking to a monkey in a whisper. Another clown approached them. His shoes were made of straw and mud. "Cómo se dice, 'te quiero,' en inglés?" he asked. The monkey began to laugh. A woman sitting next to me coughed. She was wearing a red dress. "I know what they are saying," she said. "I used to own a beautiful painting of Barcelona." Her daughter was eating popcorn, her husband was wearing a beautiful necktie. "Only certain shoe verbs use the changes within the shoe to form all forms of the future tense," he said. The clowns began to run in circles. "Lichen is not one plant, but two," said one. "I know," said the other, "it is the alga living inside that I adore." At the top of the tent, a red balloon wrote a letter to its mother: I am having dinner in a cheap restaurant; I am driving down a country road with a friend; I am in Madrid, looking for the Prado Museum. Somewhere there was a nondescript thirty-five-year-old woman looking for certain things to pack in her suitcase, somewhere there was a twenty-seven-year-old Frenchman doing the same.
Yesterday I went to the circus. A clown was standing on a chair. One of his shoes was yellow, the other was green. The clown was talking to a monkey in a whisper. Another clown approached them. His shoes were made of straw and mud. "Cómo se dice, 'te quiero,' en inglés?" he asked. The monkey began to laugh. A woman sitting next to me coughed. She was wearing a red dress. "I know what they are saying," she said. "I used to own a beautiful painting of Barcelona." Her daughter was eating popcorn, her husband was wearing a beautiful necktie. "Only certain shoe verbs use the changes within the shoe to form all forms of the future tense," he said. The clowns began to run in circles. "Lichen is not one plant, but two," said one. "I know," said the other, "it is the alga living inside that I adore." At the top of the tent, a red balloon wrote a letter to its mother: I am having dinner in a cheap restaurant; I am driving down a country road with a friend; I am in Madrid, looking for the Prado Museum. Somewhere there was a nondescript thirty-five-year-old woman looking for certain things to pack in her suitcase, somewhere there was a twenty-seven-year-old Frenchman doing the same.
THE ECONOMY OF LINE
THE ECONOMY OF LINE
I will pose with all the constancy and rigidity impossible to live. I will give you the arrangement of my hair, falling down my back. I will show the virtues of my arms and legs, the scars on my knees, the moles on my neck, the freckle I carry in the palm of my hand. Pencil my shape with the economy of line. Emulate the swirl of my hip, the curve of my thigh, my fingers as they press against the shadow of your mouth. Find the salient plane in the bend of my wrist, the commonplace gesture in the bones of my hand. Take my violent limbs; execute a tasteful compromise between truth and good design. I want a curious ribbon of light moving up and over my ribs. I want the long, gentle curve of a well formed calve. I want the ball of the foot and the bone of the ankle. I want the bend of the elbow, the fold of soft sleeves. I want the texture, the contour, and the shape. I want all of the ugly, the fight and despair. I want the basket of apples and the pair of black shoes. I want the sorrow of fidelity, and the solemn oath. I want the graceful arc of the top of my lip; I want the delineation and the impression of my form. I want my eyes to gaze out in a baleful hatred. I want to blink a red tear down the pale of my cheeks.
I will pose with all the constancy and rigidity impossible to live. I will give you the arrangement of my hair, falling down my back. I will show the virtues of my arms and legs, the scars on my knees, the moles on my neck, the freckle I carry in the palm of my hand. Pencil my shape with the economy of line. Emulate the swirl of my hip, the curve of my thigh, my fingers as they press against the shadow of your mouth. Find the salient plane in the bend of my wrist, the commonplace gesture in the bones of my hand. Take my violent limbs; execute a tasteful compromise between truth and good design. I want a curious ribbon of light moving up and over my ribs. I want the long, gentle curve of a well formed calve. I want the ball of the foot and the bone of the ankle. I want the bend of the elbow, the fold of soft sleeves. I want the texture, the contour, and the shape. I want all of the ugly, the fight and despair. I want the basket of apples and the pair of black shoes. I want the sorrow of fidelity, and the solemn oath. I want the graceful arc of the top of my lip; I want the delineation and the impression of my form. I want my eyes to gaze out in a baleful hatred. I want to blink a red tear down the pale of my cheeks.
SHIVER
SHIVER
I want to rob you of color. I want your purple jailed in pointed streaks down my back, your green running down the hollow of my neck. I want the gray of your coat around the whites of my eyes, the brown of your eyes falling in waves from my hair. I want the white of your ceiling wrapped around my legs, flecks of the beige on your walls on the backs of my knees. I want my shoulders bathed with topaz, my elbows dipping in onyx. I like the thrill of your lime, the sexy of your blue. I need arms made of jade. I need fingers tipped in rubies, a belly made of pearl. I want socks made of sapphires to cover my toes. I want the yellow cotton fibers from the collar of your shirt, the green southern pines on the hillside near your house. I want the leafy green stems in the garden by your brook; I want the soft coral petals from the flowers in your yard. I want all of your fire. I want nothing left red. I want the ink from your books in smudges on my mouth. I want my ears to hear only your white sound; I want my lips to shiver black.
I want to rob you of color. I want your purple jailed in pointed streaks down my back, your green running down the hollow of my neck. I want the gray of your coat around the whites of my eyes, the brown of your eyes falling in waves from my hair. I want the white of your ceiling wrapped around my legs, flecks of the beige on your walls on the backs of my knees. I want my shoulders bathed with topaz, my elbows dipping in onyx. I like the thrill of your lime, the sexy of your blue. I need arms made of jade. I need fingers tipped in rubies, a belly made of pearl. I want socks made of sapphires to cover my toes. I want the yellow cotton fibers from the collar of your shirt, the green southern pines on the hillside near your house. I want the leafy green stems in the garden by your brook; I want the soft coral petals from the flowers in your yard. I want all of your fire. I want nothing left red. I want the ink from your books in smudges on my mouth. I want my ears to hear only your white sound; I want my lips to shiver black.
MON COEUR ROUGE
MON COEUR ROUGE
My red heart is not a stranger in a strange land. There are no deep-rooted customs and traditions for my red heart to interpret or understand. My red heart is not supplanted by ideas of sensation and reflection; my red heart is not lost. The eyes of my red heart see no shining young god named Helios, rising each morning at dawn from the ocean; they do not conceive the sun as a golden chariot, driven across the sky. My red heart can judge the nourishing from the poisonous, the concrete from the abstract. In my red heart there are no zigzagging colors, weaving in and out, no golden curtains, drawn against the bleak outside. My red heart does not merge algebra into simple French prose; my red heart knows the difference between ballistics and marksmanship, from botany and gardening. The mood of my red heart is not brown and somber; my red heart does not scream. The mouth of my red heart does not speak of ill-fated lovers, or of rain-soaked flowers picked by half-shy, half-fiery girls. My red heart is not a wayward child; it does not waste time with astrology or alchemy. My red heart is more captivated than captive; around my red heart there are no red velvet ribbons, no circling rosettes of soft red petals. My red heart does not neglect the intonation or the inflection; the language of my red heart is not camouflaged within the lines of a devastating epic. My red heart does not imply a deep love for mankind; it does not try to interpret, to persuade or to entertain. My red heart appreciates the immorality of atomic fission and the sword. My red heart knows there will be nothing left in the end.
My red heart is not a stranger in a strange land. There are no deep-rooted customs and traditions for my red heart to interpret or understand. My red heart is not supplanted by ideas of sensation and reflection; my red heart is not lost. The eyes of my red heart see no shining young god named Helios, rising each morning at dawn from the ocean; they do not conceive the sun as a golden chariot, driven across the sky. My red heart can judge the nourishing from the poisonous, the concrete from the abstract. In my red heart there are no zigzagging colors, weaving in and out, no golden curtains, drawn against the bleak outside. My red heart does not merge algebra into simple French prose; my red heart knows the difference between ballistics and marksmanship, from botany and gardening. The mood of my red heart is not brown and somber; my red heart does not scream. The mouth of my red heart does not speak of ill-fated lovers, or of rain-soaked flowers picked by half-shy, half-fiery girls. My red heart is not a wayward child; it does not waste time with astrology or alchemy. My red heart is more captivated than captive; around my red heart there are no red velvet ribbons, no circling rosettes of soft red petals. My red heart does not neglect the intonation or the inflection; the language of my red heart is not camouflaged within the lines of a devastating epic. My red heart does not imply a deep love for mankind; it does not try to interpret, to persuade or to entertain. My red heart appreciates the immorality of atomic fission and the sword. My red heart knows there will be nothing left in the end.
NORWAY
NORWAY
We could move to Norway, get lost along the way, scrawl poetry into vacant doorways with the tips of our fingers. We could walk with a regal air, leave our shoes in the street, play hopscotch on the corner while dogs on long chains bark in tandem. We could isolate ourselves from the world, become self-sufficient, memorize only the words we need and invent the new for each other. We could form an obsession, on each other, or the world. We could vanish from the site of one another, leaving our slippers and pipe by the fireside for our children to discover. We could paint the world red, with only a purple can of paint. We could call ourselves a number, like seven, or ten. We could count ourselves on our fingers, while we wait for each other in a crowd of people running to catch the train.
We could move to Norway, get lost along the way, scrawl poetry into vacant doorways with the tips of our fingers. We could walk with a regal air, leave our shoes in the street, play hopscotch on the corner while dogs on long chains bark in tandem. We could isolate ourselves from the world, become self-sufficient, memorize only the words we need and invent the new for each other. We could form an obsession, on each other, or the world. We could vanish from the site of one another, leaving our slippers and pipe by the fireside for our children to discover. We could paint the world red, with only a purple can of paint. We could call ourselves a number, like seven, or ten. We could count ourselves on our fingers, while we wait for each other in a crowd of people running to catch the train.
SHEEN
SHEEN
You could take pornographic pictures of the most lurid kind. I could pose in my pajamas, with red and yellow vegetables balanced on the top of my head. You could contrast the sleep in my eyes with an ecological theme: environmentally conscious textiles made from plants grown in twisted rows behind our house. You could use my camera, the one my grandmother left behind in her linen closet when she moved to Kansas. I could print them on slick, glossy paper, the kind that licks the sweat from your fingertips, the kind that says “lewd,” without using fuck, or pussy. We could hang them above the sink in the bathroom, turn on the shower and let the steam paint the walls gray. In the middle of the night we could discuss the artistic meaning, cook spaghetti noodles and drape them over the foot of the bed. In the light of the moon I could call it obscure yet intelligible. We could talk about the force, and the impact. I could tell you that in Alabama “moved to Kansas” means dead. You could tell me that seulement means “alone” in French. And you could hold my hand in the pit of your mouth, while the radio plays a song neither one of us knows, or will care to remember tomorrow.
You could take pornographic pictures of the most lurid kind. I could pose in my pajamas, with red and yellow vegetables balanced on the top of my head. You could contrast the sleep in my eyes with an ecological theme: environmentally conscious textiles made from plants grown in twisted rows behind our house. You could use my camera, the one my grandmother left behind in her linen closet when she moved to Kansas. I could print them on slick, glossy paper, the kind that licks the sweat from your fingertips, the kind that says “lewd,” without using fuck, or pussy. We could hang them above the sink in the bathroom, turn on the shower and let the steam paint the walls gray. In the middle of the night we could discuss the artistic meaning, cook spaghetti noodles and drape them over the foot of the bed. In the light of the moon I could call it obscure yet intelligible. We could talk about the force, and the impact. I could tell you that in Alabama “moved to Kansas” means dead. You could tell me that seulement means “alone” in French. And you could hold my hand in the pit of your mouth, while the radio plays a song neither one of us knows, or will care to remember tomorrow.
APPLE TREE
APPLE TREE
When night comes, we sleep. When morning comes, we wake up. In the middle of the day we eat oatmeal cookies and bologna sandwiches. We leave our crumbs on the kitchen counter, wipe some to the floor with the palms of our hands. We dust the palms of our hands on the legs of our jeans. Outside there is a giant sky and a lawn of green grass and children skipping down a sidewalk. Yesterday there was a flash of lightening that struck the apple tree in the front yard. By the end of the month it will die but first it will slowly drip sap from the heart of its trunk. We will try to save it. We will wrap bandages around its middle, clean white strips ripped one by one from an old sheet. It will remind me of my childhood and I will smile. You will ask and I will talk about my grandfather's garden, how he and I used to stake up his tomato plants with strips just like these. You will smile, run your thumb down the side of my face, say how you wished you had known me. Then the children will run around us in slow circles, holding hands and singing a song we both know. Tomorrow we will get up and do it again, the memory of their song still on our lips.
When night comes, we sleep. When morning comes, we wake up. In the middle of the day we eat oatmeal cookies and bologna sandwiches. We leave our crumbs on the kitchen counter, wipe some to the floor with the palms of our hands. We dust the palms of our hands on the legs of our jeans. Outside there is a giant sky and a lawn of green grass and children skipping down a sidewalk. Yesterday there was a flash of lightening that struck the apple tree in the front yard. By the end of the month it will die but first it will slowly drip sap from the heart of its trunk. We will try to save it. We will wrap bandages around its middle, clean white strips ripped one by one from an old sheet. It will remind me of my childhood and I will smile. You will ask and I will talk about my grandfather's garden, how he and I used to stake up his tomato plants with strips just like these. You will smile, run your thumb down the side of my face, say how you wished you had known me. Then the children will run around us in slow circles, holding hands and singing a song we both know. Tomorrow we will get up and do it again, the memory of their song still on our lips.
HAMID
HAMID
He had known her a long time, almost a year, almost long enough to appreciate her strange sense of melancholy, almost long enough to appreciate her love of language. He knew her fears: tunnels, bridges, dogs and guns. He knew about the German Shepard and the broken fence gate. He knew about the fourteen-year-old brother of her best friend, the handsome one who put a shotgun to his face and pulled the trigger. He knew about the country boy she dated in college, the one who looked like Superman; the one she thought could have ended up a star in a big-budget Hollywood film about the end of the world.
She had told him about her scars: the little ones on her knuckles; the long, thin straight ones on her stomach; the one on her knee that looked like a drop of white paint. He knew she sometimes called her heart, the web of the spider. He knew about the freckle on the palm of her left hand, and how her mother had once told her it was a sign of good luck.
When they talked, he spoke of his love of the Jordanian desert, romantic and lonely. He told her about the basaltic castles, the night air, and the gaze of the moon. Sometimes he would call her at work, tell her the fable about the shadow of the gray wolf, how he moved the sand with the beating of his heart. "The desert is vast," he said. "We could lose ourselves out there." She imagined him extending a brown arm for emphasis; she imagined the taste of his shoulder in the palm of her hand, the warmth of her hand beneath his shirt.
When she was fourteen her parents took her to Mexico. "We will live as a simple family," her father had said. "We will learn the language of the people." But in Mexico she found only caution, learned to keep the secret of her blue eyes. She stared at the ground, kept her movements slight and pious. She covered her white skin and waited, tried to blend into the walls. At the top of a cliff by the sea she found a statue of Christ. At night, in her dreams, he came to her as the ghost of a child, innocent and protective. "Usted finalmente me ha encontrado," she said. In the silence of her daydreams, she called him el lobo. In the silence of the day, she spoke of nothing to no one.
Eventually Hamid became to her like a cloud, sometimes here and then gone. Sometimes she would notice his absence, sometimes not. His voice began to sound like someone she had known from childhood, someone she had once loved and later come to distrust. When he talked of the wolf she began to cry. "I do not want to hear anymore fables," she said. "I only want what is real." He told her how he had once stepped on a rusty nail, how he had become so worried it would get infected. He had heard stories, and ever after he had walked gingerly, imagining he could feel abnormal heat and infection swimming in
his blood.
She thought about telling him of Mexico: of the sandy beaches and the summers of her forgotten language and the freckles on her shoulders that would never fade with time. But she did not. She told him instead about her days in college, how she had once fallen in love with a married theatre professor, how he had ignored her stories and her poems filled with words like want and need. Then she laughed at herself. "I have become that girl," she said, "the one who offers her true-love a gift wrapped in paper tissues. And you are the man, holding my gift in your palm, the one touched by the very thought but resolved to harden yourself against such gestures in the future."
He denied it was so and she giggled and said she was sorry and then their words became as the cloud: first a paragraph, then a sentence, now just a word or two in passing: yes, no, maybe. She felt guilty and sent him the gold ring her mother had given her as a baby. She put it on a long silver chain she bought at the mall and wrapped it in red tissue paper and mailed it to an address he once gave when she sent him a copy of her favorite book of poetry. Hamid later held the ring in his hand and cried alone at home because he was very touched by the gift and because it also seemed a helpless and misguided way to get his attention; something somehow all too gritty about something that it seemed he should be above.
He had known her a long time, almost a year, almost long enough to appreciate her strange sense of melancholy, almost long enough to appreciate her love of language. He knew her fears: tunnels, bridges, dogs and guns. He knew about the German Shepard and the broken fence gate. He knew about the fourteen-year-old brother of her best friend, the handsome one who put a shotgun to his face and pulled the trigger. He knew about the country boy she dated in college, the one who looked like Superman; the one she thought could have ended up a star in a big-budget Hollywood film about the end of the world.
She had told him about her scars: the little ones on her knuckles; the long, thin straight ones on her stomach; the one on her knee that looked like a drop of white paint. He knew she sometimes called her heart, the web of the spider. He knew about the freckle on the palm of her left hand, and how her mother had once told her it was a sign of good luck.
When they talked, he spoke of his love of the Jordanian desert, romantic and lonely. He told her about the basaltic castles, the night air, and the gaze of the moon. Sometimes he would call her at work, tell her the fable about the shadow of the gray wolf, how he moved the sand with the beating of his heart. "The desert is vast," he said. "We could lose ourselves out there." She imagined him extending a brown arm for emphasis; she imagined the taste of his shoulder in the palm of her hand, the warmth of her hand beneath his shirt.
When she was fourteen her parents took her to Mexico. "We will live as a simple family," her father had said. "We will learn the language of the people." But in Mexico she found only caution, learned to keep the secret of her blue eyes. She stared at the ground, kept her movements slight and pious. She covered her white skin and waited, tried to blend into the walls. At the top of a cliff by the sea she found a statue of Christ. At night, in her dreams, he came to her as the ghost of a child, innocent and protective. "Usted finalmente me ha encontrado," she said. In the silence of her daydreams, she called him el lobo. In the silence of the day, she spoke of nothing to no one.
Eventually Hamid became to her like a cloud, sometimes here and then gone. Sometimes she would notice his absence, sometimes not. His voice began to sound like someone she had known from childhood, someone she had once loved and later come to distrust. When he talked of the wolf she began to cry. "I do not want to hear anymore fables," she said. "I only want what is real." He told her how he had once stepped on a rusty nail, how he had become so worried it would get infected. He had heard stories, and ever after he had walked gingerly, imagining he could feel abnormal heat and infection swimming in
his blood.
She thought about telling him of Mexico: of the sandy beaches and the summers of her forgotten language and the freckles on her shoulders that would never fade with time. But she did not. She told him instead about her days in college, how she had once fallen in love with a married theatre professor, how he had ignored her stories and her poems filled with words like want and need. Then she laughed at herself. "I have become that girl," she said, "the one who offers her true-love a gift wrapped in paper tissues. And you are the man, holding my gift in your palm, the one touched by the very thought but resolved to harden yourself against such gestures in the future."
He denied it was so and she giggled and said she was sorry and then their words became as the cloud: first a paragraph, then a sentence, now just a word or two in passing: yes, no, maybe. She felt guilty and sent him the gold ring her mother had given her as a baby. She put it on a long silver chain she bought at the mall and wrapped it in red tissue paper and mailed it to an address he once gave when she sent him a copy of her favorite book of poetry. Hamid later held the ring in his hand and cried alone at home because he was very touched by the gift and because it also seemed a helpless and misguided way to get his attention; something somehow all too gritty about something that it seemed he should be above.
A BRIDLE FOR YOUR TONGUE
A BRIDLE FOR YOUR TONGUE
Where have you gone, dear boy? Are you sleeping in the very cold, bowing and praying in the alley with your bridled tongue? Have you remembered to say your prayers, dear boy? Are you remembering that we are dust? We were never babies, dear boy, we were nickels for rats, we were cut to thistles, we were big harm and little lies. We were some very foolish sheep, dear boy. We were calling on God in all kinds of dissension and purity. The ice on the river was frozen clear down to the bottom and we wanted to cross with no bridge. We were following Jesus the hard way, dear boy. We only knew where to put the dirty talk. We only knew the best way to be pretty.
Where have you gone, dear boy? Are you sleeping in the very cold, bowing and praying in the alley with your bridled tongue? Have you remembered to say your prayers, dear boy? Are you remembering that we are dust? We were never babies, dear boy, we were nickels for rats, we were cut to thistles, we were big harm and little lies. We were some very foolish sheep, dear boy. We were calling on God in all kinds of dissension and purity. The ice on the river was frozen clear down to the bottom and we wanted to cross with no bridge. We were following Jesus the hard way, dear boy. We only knew where to put the dirty talk. We only knew the best way to be pretty.
PRETTY BABY
PRETTY BABY
Is it a beautiful thing, Dominic, to look so heavenly? Is it a beautiful thing, to know your mouth falls from my fingertips at night? Was there something you wanted to ask? Did I see your mouth move in the dark? Did I trip over the beautiful line of your jaw? Last night we danced to La Dolce Vita but no one was listening to us, Dominic. I sang to your fingers and the small of your back, but no one was looking. No one could read. No one could hear the language. The lines of my mouth were woven around the laces of your shoes, Dominic. Your shoes were the Klamath weed, tall and bright yellow. Your shoes were the French Beetle, that saved the Western Range.
I need the sun. I need you falling. Is that my beautiful Dominic falling from a cerulean sky? I need the peppermint candy hidden in the palm of your hand. I need the red and white bomb strapped to your back. I need to pull the trigger. Did you find me in your sleep, Dominic? Did you see me and look away? You were my Copán. Did I tell you? I think you started an avalanche. I think my face was covered in snow. I was calling for you, Dominic. I called for my amante invisible but you were busy chopping wood for the fire. What kept you away so long? Were you writing a frightening verse with the edge of your tomahawk? Did the edge of your tomahawk clip my finger, Dominic? Did I bleed red glitter on the carpet? Did I make a mess of the floor you made so pretty? It's a beautiful thing to always be the stranger in love with a warm summer day. One day the bomb on your back will explode, Dominic. One day we will spend red and white warm summer days in Luxembourg chopping wood.
You are so heavenly, Dominic. Were you once a teenage starlet? Did you comb your hair to the side and let it fall into your eyes like the ambiguity of blue? Did the girls fall from the sky like an avalanche? I think you were unfaithful to the peppermint in your hand, Dominic. I think you called your peppermint: mi amante. One day you will make me old, Dominic. One day I will be a child in your arms. You will whisper fifteen minutes in my ear and I will play happily in the garden. I will find your tomahawk hidden in the shed under a pile of wood. I will dance around the fountain singing your name to the stars. I will fall out of my cerulean bed and you will pat me just so and I will slap myself on the knee with the tomahawk hidden beneath the covers. My knee will shiver in twisted shades of pink and red. I will whisper in the night: meet me at the fountain, Dominic, and we will share some lemonade.
Isn't it heavenly, Dominic? Can you hear the stars dancing to La Dolce Vita? Last night I dreamed of you twice; you were a child and I whispered in your ear: but you will always be my pretty baby. I was only joking when I said you will always be the stranger, Dominic. You are the one I knew back then. I had my chance, when the boys were falling out of a pink sky. How many boys fell, Dominic? Did I hear an avalanche? Did I hear you singing? I am Joan of Arc with a tomahawk, Dominic. I was only joking when I asked you to meet me at the fountain. I have no right to drink lemonade with you, Dominic. I have no right to call you my pretty baby. I am a child dancing around the fountain in her beautiful underwear, Dominic. I am a child with a mouth made of glass.
Is it a beautiful thing, Dominic, to look so heavenly? Is it a beautiful thing, to know your mouth falls from my fingertips at night? Was there something you wanted to ask? Did I see your mouth move in the dark? Did I trip over the beautiful line of your jaw? Last night we danced to La Dolce Vita but no one was listening to us, Dominic. I sang to your fingers and the small of your back, but no one was looking. No one could read. No one could hear the language. The lines of my mouth were woven around the laces of your shoes, Dominic. Your shoes were the Klamath weed, tall and bright yellow. Your shoes were the French Beetle, that saved the Western Range.
I need the sun. I need you falling. Is that my beautiful Dominic falling from a cerulean sky? I need the peppermint candy hidden in the palm of your hand. I need the red and white bomb strapped to your back. I need to pull the trigger. Did you find me in your sleep, Dominic? Did you see me and look away? You were my Copán. Did I tell you? I think you started an avalanche. I think my face was covered in snow. I was calling for you, Dominic. I called for my amante invisible but you were busy chopping wood for the fire. What kept you away so long? Were you writing a frightening verse with the edge of your tomahawk? Did the edge of your tomahawk clip my finger, Dominic? Did I bleed red glitter on the carpet? Did I make a mess of the floor you made so pretty? It's a beautiful thing to always be the stranger in love with a warm summer day. One day the bomb on your back will explode, Dominic. One day we will spend red and white warm summer days in Luxembourg chopping wood.
You are so heavenly, Dominic. Were you once a teenage starlet? Did you comb your hair to the side and let it fall into your eyes like the ambiguity of blue? Did the girls fall from the sky like an avalanche? I think you were unfaithful to the peppermint in your hand, Dominic. I think you called your peppermint: mi amante. One day you will make me old, Dominic. One day I will be a child in your arms. You will whisper fifteen minutes in my ear and I will play happily in the garden. I will find your tomahawk hidden in the shed under a pile of wood. I will dance around the fountain singing your name to the stars. I will fall out of my cerulean bed and you will pat me just so and I will slap myself on the knee with the tomahawk hidden beneath the covers. My knee will shiver in twisted shades of pink and red. I will whisper in the night: meet me at the fountain, Dominic, and we will share some lemonade.
Isn't it heavenly, Dominic? Can you hear the stars dancing to La Dolce Vita? Last night I dreamed of you twice; you were a child and I whispered in your ear: but you will always be my pretty baby. I was only joking when I said you will always be the stranger, Dominic. You are the one I knew back then. I had my chance, when the boys were falling out of a pink sky. How many boys fell, Dominic? Did I hear an avalanche? Did I hear you singing? I am Joan of Arc with a tomahawk, Dominic. I was only joking when I asked you to meet me at the fountain. I have no right to drink lemonade with you, Dominic. I have no right to call you my pretty baby. I am a child dancing around the fountain in her beautiful underwear, Dominic. I am a child with a mouth made of glass.
ONE SUMMER IN CANADA
ONE SUMMER IN CANADA
In Toronto there is a very large mall, very tall, and very crowded. Four stories. Many escalators. Many sets of stairs. In this mall a mother and her seven year old daughter will go shopping one summer day in June. They will be tourists. They will be looking for something "uniquely Canadian" to take back to their home in Alabama. In this mall the mother will buy a trendy watch with a black leather band from an oriental girl at a kiosk on the third floor. The leather band will be decorated with ten small silver rings that look as though they could be connected to something, like a chain, or a leash. The mother will like this watch very much. She will come to think of it as an external symbol of her internal clash. She will later leave the watch on a beach at Lake Ontario, accidentally buried in the sand by the daughter. The daughter will buy a "Hillary Duff" mystery-detective book that she will never read. Later, the mother will remark that neither item seemed very Canadian to her at all.
Across the street from this mall there is a fountain that shoots singular jets of smooth water straight out of the sidewalk from roughly twenty different holes in the cement, each jet forming roughly twenty singular fountains in two rows of ten, each row being roughly twenty feet apart, each row then being in a straight line, one row standing guard against the other, both rows forming a kind of temporary arched water-walkway. This fountain will be irresistible to the daughter, she being just seven. This daughter will coyly tell her mother that she will not go into the fountain, but she will. The mother of this seven year old daughter will be too tired to argue, having walked all morning through that very tall mall, looking for something Canadian.
In a week the mother will return to the mall and buy a Canadian t-shirt from Old Navy. She will like the red maple leaf in the center of the shirt. The t-shirt will be gray. She will buy a matching t-shirt for the daughter. The daughter will lose her t-shirt before she returns to Alabama; she will cry. The mother will then give her Canadian t-shirt to the daughter.
When the mother and daughter stop at the fountain to rest, this seven year old girl will say that she will only run through the fountain when the water falls back down, that she only wants to splash around in the puddles left behind once the water has drained back in the cement. But everyone knows that a seven year old girl cannot resist lolly-gagging, walking through this fountain just slowly enough to "accidentally" be caught by the water when it once again shoots back out of the cement and into the sky. It is a waste of breath for the mother to say, "Do not get wet. I do not want to ride the subway with a wet, shivering daughter." But the daughter will not listen. She will get wet.
In fact, the daughter will stand in the fountain long enough to soak her shoes, her shirt, her jeans, and her pink "Hello Kitty" socks. The daughter will laugh. She will think this is very funny. But then the sun will go down very fast, and the air will become cold, colder than a seven year old girl from Alabama has ever felt in June. Her lips will turn purple. She will begin to shiver. She will complain that she is very cold. Her mother will say, "I told you to bring your jacket." The daughter will shiver some more. The two of them will run to the subway, it is close by. They will pass through an intersection. In this intersection there will be a pedestrian walkway, with an electronic "Walk - Don't Walk" sign that chirps like a parakeet. The mother will ask a handsome Canadian man why the sign chirps. The Canadian will tell her it is for blind people. The daughter will spend the rest of the week looking for blind Canadians.
The mother and the daughter will then find the subway entrance, somewhere near the chirping intersection. The mother will stop before going in, and look for her daughter's book of subway tickets. The tickets will look something like the S&H green stamps her own mother used to collect from the Piggly Wiggly grocery store in hopes of one day earning enough points for a set of pink Fiesta Ware. The tickets will look something like a sheet of American postage stamps, only not sticky on the back, but worth roughly the same amount of money, even with the exchange rate.
The mother will find the tickets at the bottom of her purse, inside her checkbook, next to the driver license she thought had been lost in the library across from the Internet café. The daughter will complain. She will be cold. As the mother reaches for the tickets, a gust of cold Canadian wind will blow through, pick the tickets up, and sweep them out of the mother's purse. The mother and daughter will stand at the top of the subway steps and watch in disbelief as the tickets swirl around in the the air above them, high above the pedestrian walkway, and the intersection. High above the street signs and the traffic lights and the fountain and the four-story mall. Higher still than the rising Canadian moon and the red and white June summer sky.
In Toronto there is a very large mall, very tall, and very crowded. Four stories. Many escalators. Many sets of stairs. In this mall a mother and her seven year old daughter will go shopping one summer day in June. They will be tourists. They will be looking for something "uniquely Canadian" to take back to their home in Alabama. In this mall the mother will buy a trendy watch with a black leather band from an oriental girl at a kiosk on the third floor. The leather band will be decorated with ten small silver rings that look as though they could be connected to something, like a chain, or a leash. The mother will like this watch very much. She will come to think of it as an external symbol of her internal clash. She will later leave the watch on a beach at Lake Ontario, accidentally buried in the sand by the daughter. The daughter will buy a "Hillary Duff" mystery-detective book that she will never read. Later, the mother will remark that neither item seemed very Canadian to her at all.
Across the street from this mall there is a fountain that shoots singular jets of smooth water straight out of the sidewalk from roughly twenty different holes in the cement, each jet forming roughly twenty singular fountains in two rows of ten, each row being roughly twenty feet apart, each row then being in a straight line, one row standing guard against the other, both rows forming a kind of temporary arched water-walkway. This fountain will be irresistible to the daughter, she being just seven. This daughter will coyly tell her mother that she will not go into the fountain, but she will. The mother of this seven year old daughter will be too tired to argue, having walked all morning through that very tall mall, looking for something Canadian.
In a week the mother will return to the mall and buy a Canadian t-shirt from Old Navy. She will like the red maple leaf in the center of the shirt. The t-shirt will be gray. She will buy a matching t-shirt for the daughter. The daughter will lose her t-shirt before she returns to Alabama; she will cry. The mother will then give her Canadian t-shirt to the daughter.
When the mother and daughter stop at the fountain to rest, this seven year old girl will say that she will only run through the fountain when the water falls back down, that she only wants to splash around in the puddles left behind once the water has drained back in the cement. But everyone knows that a seven year old girl cannot resist lolly-gagging, walking through this fountain just slowly enough to "accidentally" be caught by the water when it once again shoots back out of the cement and into the sky. It is a waste of breath for the mother to say, "Do not get wet. I do not want to ride the subway with a wet, shivering daughter." But the daughter will not listen. She will get wet.
In fact, the daughter will stand in the fountain long enough to soak her shoes, her shirt, her jeans, and her pink "Hello Kitty" socks. The daughter will laugh. She will think this is very funny. But then the sun will go down very fast, and the air will become cold, colder than a seven year old girl from Alabama has ever felt in June. Her lips will turn purple. She will begin to shiver. She will complain that she is very cold. Her mother will say, "I told you to bring your jacket." The daughter will shiver some more. The two of them will run to the subway, it is close by. They will pass through an intersection. In this intersection there will be a pedestrian walkway, with an electronic "Walk - Don't Walk" sign that chirps like a parakeet. The mother will ask a handsome Canadian man why the sign chirps. The Canadian will tell her it is for blind people. The daughter will spend the rest of the week looking for blind Canadians.
The mother and the daughter will then find the subway entrance, somewhere near the chirping intersection. The mother will stop before going in, and look for her daughter's book of subway tickets. The tickets will look something like the S&H green stamps her own mother used to collect from the Piggly Wiggly grocery store in hopes of one day earning enough points for a set of pink Fiesta Ware. The tickets will look something like a sheet of American postage stamps, only not sticky on the back, but worth roughly the same amount of money, even with the exchange rate.
The mother will find the tickets at the bottom of her purse, inside her checkbook, next to the driver license she thought had been lost in the library across from the Internet café. The daughter will complain. She will be cold. As the mother reaches for the tickets, a gust of cold Canadian wind will blow through, pick the tickets up, and sweep them out of the mother's purse. The mother and daughter will stand at the top of the subway steps and watch in disbelief as the tickets swirl around in the the air above them, high above the pedestrian walkway, and the intersection. High above the street signs and the traffic lights and the fountain and the four-story mall. Higher still than the rising Canadian moon and the red and white June summer sky.
PERFECT FOR SOMETHING LIKE THAT
PERFECT FOR SOMETHING LIKE THAT
Last night, just before I fell asleep, I thought of a poem. A beautiful poem. In it there was a man with brown eyes who spoke French: parfait, sensible, balle. I told myself I should get up and write it down, so I wouldn't forget. It seemed an important piece at the time, perhaps the one that would become my masterpiece, included in all the important literary anthologies. But I did not. Instead I remained in bed and fell asleep, thinking of all the important things I needed to do the next morning: fill the car up with gas, draft a living will, buy cake mix. Now I can remember only one word of the poem, that being "red." The rest of my beautiful red poem remains lost, like many other important things I once knew but now can't recall: the combination on my seventh grade hall locker, the sound of my first lover's voice, the smell of my grandmother's house. All of these things once lived, vibrant, waiting to become some grand inspiration, indicative of something familiar, passed from one mouth to another. Eventually they became idle: now a slick residue at the bottom of my brain-case; now collected at the stem; now a delicate structure; now a minor turn-of-phrase; now slithering down my back, a secret swelling in my sleep. It seems a shame somehow, to be left with nothing but red.
Last night, just before I fell asleep, I thought of a poem. A beautiful poem. In it there was a man with brown eyes who spoke French: parfait, sensible, balle. I told myself I should get up and write it down, so I wouldn't forget. It seemed an important piece at the time, perhaps the one that would become my masterpiece, included in all the important literary anthologies. But I did not. Instead I remained in bed and fell asleep, thinking of all the important things I needed to do the next morning: fill the car up with gas, draft a living will, buy cake mix. Now I can remember only one word of the poem, that being "red." The rest of my beautiful red poem remains lost, like many other important things I once knew but now can't recall: the combination on my seventh grade hall locker, the sound of my first lover's voice, the smell of my grandmother's house. All of these things once lived, vibrant, waiting to become some grand inspiration, indicative of something familiar, passed from one mouth to another. Eventually they became idle: now a slick residue at the bottom of my brain-case; now collected at the stem; now a delicate structure; now a minor turn-of-phrase; now slithering down my back, a secret swelling in my sleep. It seems a shame somehow, to be left with nothing but red.
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