Top Five Poem

This poem was selected as one of the top five for last April's Writer's Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge for Day 18.



Conversation

I remember my mouth moving,
words spilling out upon the hospital blanket.
I remember him answering
in between labored breaths.
I wanted to lean in closer
so I could hear what he said
but I was still afraid
to get too close to him.
I remember that everything in the room
seemed larger than he did
and that I kept clenching and
unclinching my fists
like they were jellyfish,
like if I opened and closed them enough
I could propel myself right out the window.
I remember looking at
the potted orchid
beside the soap dispenser
and how the labellum
looked like a polka-dot pocket
full of words left unsaid.

Wednesday's "Promptly" Writing Prompt

The Blue Guitar

I've seen the angel of Death. He wears a killer pair of thigh-high boots. Imagine Bowie with a broadsword.

It was one of those nights where every time I'm about to fall asleep I have a hypnic jerk. Except this time I jerk myself right off the bed.

On my bedroom floor, in the dark, everything looks different. The green light of the power strip gives the notebooks and paperbacks an absinthian glow. Dust bunnies merge together in the no man's land beneath my bed preparing their ambush. The acoustic guitar propped up in the corner, the one I never did learn how to play, looks like a tired old man, one solemn chord away from serenading the undertaker. And then I see my face reflected in black latex that goes on forever. Almost. This guy looks like he knows what he's doing and, frankly, I'm curious. So I say, “You aren't going to get no fight from me, Death. To tell the truth, I've been ready for a while. Life is boring.”

“We agree in principle. That's clear.”

“Yes, well, I'm glad someone finally understands where I'm coming from.” I still lay there on the bedroom floor looking stupid. And Death's still standing there looking amazing, his left hand on the glittering pommel of his sword. And I'm wondering when it's going to happen. You know, when he's going to close my eyes with a slow wave, hand me that one-way ticket, do the reaping. He doesn't seem in any hurry. “You want a sandwich? I think I've got some roast beef in the kitchen.”

Death looks over at the corner of my bedroom. “Things as they are are changed upon the blue guitar.”

“Ah, yeah, well, I never learned to play.”

“I play. But this is what I think. We shall forget by day, except the moments when we choose to play.” Death bent his head down and I could see now his hair was white as his sword.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess it's too late for me to learn now. I've already got one foot in the grave. I'm, like, half the man I was this morning.”

Death shook his head. “Am I not, myself, only half a figure of a sort, a figure half seen, or seen for a moment, a man of the mind, an apparition appareled in apparels of such lightest look that a turn of my shoulder and quickly, too quickly, I am gone?”

And he was. Gone, that is. And I wish I could say I learned to play that guitar, but I forgot about until this morning when it fell over with a dissonant thud.

Final Day of the Poem-a-Day Challenge

Hysterectomy

When I fell asleep the nurse was still
laughing. I don't remember the
joke. And while I was sleeping they
drew the knife and cut it out. Out! And
in the dark of anesthesia I couldn't
yell, Stop! I've changed my mind.

They said to me, Don't be afraid. Then they
tore me open and harvested a pink plump pear of
an organ. And while they offered a sacrifice to
the god of bloody things I was crawling through
a sea of sage. Crawling. But my wrists were
tied. And my mouth was tied. The other
women walked past me with their baskets of
fruit. They pretended not to see me twitching at
their heels.

There were no telephones where
I went and kisses were hard to
come by. And no one explained that
feeling of being taken from one world and
placed in another. That feeling. It was the
opposite of waking up on a hospital bed with
an ache where you're missing something.

Day Twenty-Nine of the Poem-a-Day Challenge

89

If there was a way to give him all without
giving him anything, I guess I've done it.
I guess. The bedspread was scratchy. The
blue Jesus on the wall quietly prayed. I watched the
second hand on the clock move around and
around, stopping to kiss each tick once quickly on
the way to tock. In retrospect, I could have been more
original. It's not like I thought I was the
one. Not really. That's probably what we all
say. In retrospect. But beneath the
sidewalk and the water pipes and the dirt was
someone a little uncertain who happened to
hold a lever in her hand.

day 28 p.a.d.

Through this Moment

A cardboard boat, its mainsail a
torn-up t-shirt blowing in the
wind so a pattern of reddish
light twinkles on the water, crawls bit by
bit over the inky flat rocks of the
riverbed. It must have been built while
I was sitting here trying to mend another
hole in the sofa's upholstery. He is so far away
from me right at this moment. But there are
others, moments so close, moments of
fusion. Ice melting into water. This
tempestuous soul who only months ago
was blood and bones and water.

p.a.d. --day twenty-seven

Rectangles

Arranging and rearranging the hem of
her red satin dress, she pauses to
look at the camera. I do not expect

a smile or an offering, perhaps a
scream, a silent scream for
melodrama's sake. All angles are

her angles. At any rate, the
ghosts hide in the dark until
she's away. I knew her before

she had to put gold in her hair, when
her curves were round and soft. If
you believe miracles occur then

you've never been strapped to
the bed when she administers the
dose. Degree by degree.

p.a.d. -- day twenty-six

Of the Waves
for Kenneth


A little boy
stands on a box
in too-big blue jeans,

munching on
carrot sticks and
singing Dylan.

We rush through
dinners, school days,
birthdays,

barely stopping to
bend and breathe in
the sweet and salty.

He stands on a
cardboard box bare-
foot and plucks a

guitar, his ten fingers and
toes are gulls that
say good luck

slowing us down. The
boy who swells and
breaks like every

breath is every-
thing. The boy who
knows a clock different

from the one hanging
on the kitchen wall. The

boy whose laughter draws
honey from the
roaring sea.

day 25 p.a.d.

Fever

Little snowflakes, little chalky
wafers, you flutter outside my

window. I stick out my tongue but
still cannot taste your

chill. There is a cold I cannot
catch! If you could nip, or bite--

close your arctic fingers around
my throat. Not this, not

this falling down without
frostbite, without numb.

I'm weary of watching
you wobble, stark as

bone, lifeless as the
shavings of a fingernail.

day 23 p.a.d.

Supper

Supper is full of noise. The
sharp staccato of celery being
chopped. Forks and knives
rattle against each other like
bells with broken clappers.
Grandpa grunts as he tries to
get out of his chair.

In the middle of
everything slouches
a whistling boy. Sneaker
toes tap linoleum. Sigh. A
pencil clucks and whispers across
the paper. Sigh. Pencil
becomes drum stick until
the song ends. Sigh.

Platters stomp and
tromp on the table. Glasses
fill with water. Chairs
pull out. A rushed
prayer. The rip of
crusty bread. Everyone
speaks at once.

poem-a-day challenge -- day twenty-two

Flash Flood

The first time it rained, I was
a wreck. I remembered
stories my new husband had
mentioned, stories of
basements slowly filling with
water, animals floating by
vacant family room
windows, taking a
rowboat to work.

I imagined my baby being
whisked away in his
bassinet down Bay Avenue.
I lifted him carefully into
my arms, with great
ceremony, like I might
never do it again.

I ran upstairs and tried to
pack a bag, a plastic grocery
bag, with necessities. What
was necessary? I'd never lived in
a city that flooded. Suddenly,
I was homesick.

The rain in this new place, this
strange city, the rain here is
moody and scornful. It assaults
frisbee throwers in the park, crushes
flowers and has been know to
steal umbrellas right out of tightly
clutched hands. The rain here takes a
joy ride and never looks back.

p.a.d. --day twenty-one

Budd Bay

She leans over the landing and drops
pebbles into Budd Bay, the smooth
rocks work their way down her fingers and
out of her hands into the murky water.

The afternoon sun tints everything
an unnatural buff color, like
polaroids from the 1970s.

Her hair slips between the slats of
the boardwalk. Tucked behind a
pierced ear. Strands brush her
forearm. Protein filaments.

She drops another pebble. Plop. The
surface of the water explodes.

On a bench further down the
wharf an old man clips shades onto
his eye glasses. A woman with
curly hair sits down next to him and puts a
blanket across his knees. She shouts at
him to straighten his collar.

Surface tension. Ripples. Water lit by
late summer sunlight. Quickly it goes.
It cannot hold its shape.

Day Twenty (p.a.d.)

And Then It Unfolds

There is a rush of
wind, sheet music scatters like
dandelion snow, you lose your
balance. Off kilter.

You watch yourself
disentangle. They say
you grew the beard to appear
more distinguished. Older.
Wiser.

Just seconds ago your
fingers were skillful and
sure. Already you are
trying to recall how

smooth the keys felt under
your fingertips. The slight
resistance. The delicate
sound of pianissimo. The
exact moment

when you floated away from
the sanctuary of the concert hall and
unraveled knee-deep in
sea grass.

p.a.d. -- day nineteen

Attachment

For years I've been looking for somewhere to go.
New York. New Mexico. Old El Paso. I have even
planned things out once or twice. Called the
numbers and received the brochures. Checked on
apartments and duplexes. Looked up crime rates.
And then, in my dreams, there I am searching for
a pine tree to sit under, a warm cup of coffee, the
bellow of the sea.

p.a.d. day eighteen

Forgetting

The act of forgetting is a slow one.
So much sneaks back in.

The fallen feather of a
belted kingfisher. The smell of
pepperoni pizza. The manner in which
a girl in the street quickly says hello and
then tucks her chin into her
chest.

Remnants of debris.

I stumble on their tangled bits.

Forgetting to remember to
forget is a fascinating,
formidable thing. Each
memory opening always
into another.

day seventeen of the poem-a-day challenge

After

The black smoke rises like a
cat stretching after a nap. I used
to be able to smell it. I used to
like the smell. I used to do it on
purpose just so I could inhale the
withery scorch . In the middle of
the day I drive back to my place just
to watch a slice of bread go from
golden brown to charcoal.

p.a.d. -- day sixteen

Clouds are Water

Grams is on her knees bent
over the washing basin, rubbing a
linen blouse upon the galvanized
steel ribs of the washboard. I try to
open the window, to holler, to ask
her why she doesn't just throw the
clothes in the washing machine, but
the window won't budge. I watch
her scrub--plunge, lift, plunge. She
is laughing. Her cheeks are
clouds and clouds are water.

day fifteen p.a.d.

Pickup Truck

I stare at the fuzzy blue dice hanging from the
rearview mirror and try to breathe through my
mouth to avoid the sour smell of his sweat. The
sun is hot on my thighs and I wish I hadn't worn
such short shorts.

I pat his arm quickly and sit on my hands to keep
my legs from sticking to the blue vinyl seat. The
radio has gone staticky but I don't dare touch it,
don't dare chance tuning into some honky tonker
moanin' the blues.

I don't know what to say so I keep pretending to
yawn, keep pretending he never said it. Each
time we pass a traffic sign, a whoosh like the
wind being forced out of an air mattress, quick
and all at once.

p.a.d. day fourteen

Lines

Simian crease, sugar-stirring
spoon, Bob's suspenders, electric

circuit loop. Cocaine, a cat's
tail, steel rails running on

wooden ties. The point
spread, kohl powder

penciled around bloodshot
eyes, getting from point A to

point B. Kenneth's untied
shoelaces, the 50-yard

line on a football field,
grocery lists, the end of

a marathon, walls, a picture
frame painted gold. Song and

dance, the pink satin ribbons in
Kate's hair. Postcards from a

childhood pen pal, a filmstrip, the
string attached to a tea bag, the tone arm of

a phonograph, The stem of a late summer
sunflower, veins returning impure blood back to

the heart, a fading face drawn in the after-
shower fog on a bathroom mirror.

p.a.d. -- day thirteen

Paper

Fashion magazines, broken-
down cereal boxes and
seven drafts of a poem in
a bundle on the curb.

The gray cat reclines on
last week's spelling
test, she bats a jigsaw puzzle
piece between her paws.

Last night's carry-out
still on the coffee table,
Kung Pao sauce weeping on
a brood of cut-out paper dolls.

day twelve p.a.d.

If Only

If Only Mama'd let me go to the county fair,
ice cream candy apple coca-cola stains on
white t-shirt, flea market tye dye sunglasses
hats with detachable hair, $10 entry fee vocal
dance instrumental bathing suit beauty pageant &
talent contest, down and dirty grass
roots lawn mower racing, beekeepers apiary
honey comb in wide mouth jar with rust-free lid,
to market to market to buy a fat hog, fortune
telling star tarot card palm in Gypsy Lee's hand.