Her Life
The moon steps out
in the daylight-
like a fingernail
on the floor of the sky.
She recalls how she shone
in the darkness,
reflecting light
of a star that she isn’t.
On and on, she pushes
against gravity,
shaking the waves into tides.
She longs to be more than
an object,
a mass trapped in orbit
in space.
That Dance
In the midst of the crowd on dance floor,
we found ourselves both unattached.
Our dates would forgive us the offer
as the chords called us closer to dance.
I remember the vibration your skin made,
the light hum as you pulled me in close,
our song folded out like soft velvet,
the what ifs played out like sweet notes.
Our feet as the drums beat together;
We knew that it wouldn’t last long.
Some people get years in the music;
Some people get one little song.
So Far
Do any of them see her clear?
She’s gazing deeply at her mirror.
She envisions friends, each a pallbearer-
Them filled with life - her, absent terror.
Resigned to live her life in pain,
she clings to them to cause refrain.
She losing hard; a landslide game.
Depression smirks at its cruel reign.
At moments when she’s all alone,
she smells the fear- a cheap cologne.
She’d squelch the root if it were known-
she’s caught up in an undertow.
The time has passed, yet she’s still here
enduring each and every year.
Where’s the light? That way she’d steer.
When’d the climb get this severe?
Maybe someday, it won’t hurt.
She’s breathing hard; she swallows dirt.
So far with death, she’s just a flirt.
She fakes a smile; she fix’s her shirt.
Life: A Tragedy
Life at its core is a tragedy. Characters fighting their flaws. The resolution always death. The ending spoiled from the beginning. And yet, we characters, we like to imagine otherwise. But what is so wrong with a tragedy?
A comedy may seem like a better option. Shakespearean comedies mirror modern day romance films: the ending cultivating in marriage. But what happens next we often wonder? For after the “I dos”, the conflict persists. It is continuous and eternal. A comedy can only track the character for a certain portion of her life. It ends feeling complete. But what happens after the honeymoon is over?
Inevitably, the escalator moves us forward.
My grandparents experienced over 50 years of marriage. The key word we generally add to this description is “wonderful” and their marriage was full of more positives than negatives. But make no mistake, there was tension. There are differences of opinions, and styles, and music and dinner choices. And after this duration of differences for over 50 years, my grandfather passed away. Unwillingly but expectedly. I can still remember his body lying on the floor and my grandmother gently touching his still face. By all rights, we could label this a tragedy. A great love terminated. My grandmother alone. And I wonder how many times in her heart she tells herself, “If only Louie were here...” But he is not.
Yet she is still living. And even though we know how her story will turn out, which is to say in death, she is still laughing at jokes and enjoying ice cream. She is still supporting political candidates that I cannot stand the sight of. You see, it is the perspective in which we tune in to the events that makes the difference. A comedy starts with trouble and ends on high note and a tragedy the reverse. She has continued where an ending had existed. So, the question remains: Where do we decide to begin or end the story?
When experiencing labor contractions, a woman may believe herself to be dying. Unaided by medicine, the pain ranks generally as the worst pain she may ever experience while living. Yet, the birth of a child can be exceedingly joyous. Because it ends in the birth of a being. A creature full of potential, promise and pride. Again, not all mothers feel as I did. Because their stories are different than mine. Even still, the child will grow and cause problems. The terrible twos may feel like the reign of a dictator. Again, we jump in and out of a life. How are you telling your story?
We know the ending for each of us. At some point our mortality will overthrow our perspective. But such a dichotomy creates the poignancy of each moment. For isn’t there also beauty and joy in a tragedy? Doesn’t the director zoom into a scene that takes your breath away? When all seems lost in the heartbreak, there is always that one thing: someone holding the dying character’s hand, a gentle kiss on the forehead or a sunset that deserves to be painted. In the midst of loss, what to cherish clarifies.
This is your tragedy. You are the protagonist. Make the audience mourn your exit. Be the hero that we can’t imagine living without. For then perhaps, we will carry your story and it will stir the beginning of something else which in turn will not classify it as a tragedy after all.
They Call to Me
I descended from wolves. Ancient as mammoths. Fierce like the sabor toothes. My sinews shriek of survival.
Yet here I am relegated with the task of watching this box- an apartment so small my ancestors cry. I hear them howling down the street, late in the night after the popping sounds in the dark. Nothing comes in the door I don’t admit. I’m that good.
The forests don’t smell or feel like they used to. Here the ground is light grey, hard as a rock and level all over. Giant mechanical beasts parade in lines. Even the trees are caged in their tight little corner amonst the shelters.
My mother passed down old knowledge, licked it into my brain. The smell of the pines when the rain picks up, the sweat of prey as it panics, the manner to salve a wound in the wild. And I long to use it. To feel the wind in my fur as I stretch out my legs till they burn. I want my sides to ache with a dull heat from the strain of a sprint. I need to clean my paws of the mud that is caked in their crevices from the agile shifts of my hunt.
Yet, here I am. Pacing. In this room that is my cage.
I must escape.
The window is cracked to allow the cool air to breeze in. It is much too small and we are far too high for me to jump down. There is no exit save the door. I stare at the slender black handle that curves down into a loose piece to push. The lock is closed. I’m not a young pup.
In fact, most of my life I was content to sit here and wait for my master. My master with his black shaggy hair falling into his eyes and his kind words for me. We used to run together, down the rough roads as we panted as a pack. We would pause in the park to catch our breath and to stare at the ducks. I always want to catch their slender throats in my jaws and squeeze. Such instints are eternal.
But I’ve aged. The white fur has graced itself into my muzzle and surrounds my eyes in a mask. I look into the pool of water and see not me. My hips they ache- a dull, pain that makes it hard to rise. I fear that by sitting here I will not get up the next time. That I will die in this place with the sky just outside the window and not over my head.
I’ve waited all day. Now is the time he returns. He will not expect me to run. Not his good companion, the one he can trust. What is one little betrayal at the end of my life? Surely, he will understand. Someday when he is unrecognizable to himself, won’t he ask himself what was it he was meant to do? And he will think of me and know. Without words because words are not passed down deep inside of us. It is the feelings. And his feelings will sense me and that will be enough.
I can hear his feet on the stairs, far outside the door. It gives me time to get up. My right leg doesn’t want to be extended. I force it to obey. I stare at the handle and hold my breath. It begins to move and I can hear the gliding of the bolt, smooth as a stream. I lick my lips.
The door pushes in and I’m to the side with my nose already gliding into the gap, noticing his posture and the leg movements he’s about to take. He widens the opening and I press forward when he leans down. His satchel flows down in a heavy movement and smashes into my face, stunning me from my plan.
“Hey, boy,” he says and smiles.
It’s the tenderness that hurts and I dart around him in a full gallop, down the hallway to my freedom.
“Brody!” he’s calling behind me but I’m frantic and the hallway is a long tunnel. I can feel the years, how they have slowed me. A younger me could have moved much faster. He’s running after me and I look ahead and there’s a door. But this time the door to the stairs is closed. Sealed shut. I skid to halt and breath heavy as he comes panting beside me.
He kneels down and holds me, so gentle like my mother used to. I almost imagine that he will lick me.
“Where are you going?” He grabs my face and looks at me. He stares into my eyes and I wish I could tell him. I descended from wolves I would tell him, and they call to me each night. And they beckon me to run.
Speak to Me
Dad? I call out to an empty hallway.
I’m five listening to the sound of
your feet shuffling on the carpet.
Can ghosts even hear you?
I’m twelve standing by the door
peeking out the shutters.
I step out to stare at
the carport. Empty.
You’re still
not home.
Can he remember where he lived?
I’m twenty-one and down from college
I’ve changed
from the little girl you knew.
You always have advice.
I don’t want to hear it.
I’m not in town,
I lie.
The next day
you lie down where your car parks
on the cracked concrete
and never get back up.
Shouldn’t he be trapped here
with our unfinished business?
I’m thirty-five walking in the desert,
you brought us here to live.
The cicadas in the trees
are making a song of vibrations-
it sounds like the spirit box
ghost hunters use
to energize the dead
into speaking to the living.
Why don’t you talk to me?
Fine
“It’s always the quiet ones,” says the coroner shaking his head as he stares down at the mess on the floor. Blood pools around the head of a man lying at an awkward angle.
An officer whistles low. “Check out the scars on him,” he says.
“Yeah. These suicides have lots,” the coroner replies.
They can hear a woman in the hall, sobbing loudly, “I talked to him this morning. He said he was fine.”
Oh Man!
I reach down and scratch my balls. An entirely normal morning except I don't have balls. Or at least I didn't until now.
The grogginess spikes to alarm and I move my hand up to find, well what else? A penis. A penis!?
It's nothing to get all stirred up about and even I'm disappointed at the size of it even with the morning giving it an advantage. Still, by now, I'm reaching everywhere. For the boobs that are smashed into pecs and the hair that seems buzzed to a shave. I rub my hands over the softness of the hair to try to get my bearings.
Last night, I went to bed a woman. A plump, little vixen with double D's and a little muffin top. Today, man parts flop like dead appendages in places where a bra can't support.
Sitting up, I can see my room is the same. The floral bedspread still warms my new body that lies atop a pink sheet. My bra glares at me from besides the bed in a crumpled heap. Bedazzled picture frames sparkle feminity from my nightstand.
Yet, there's no feminity on me besides my nightgown.
There are so many questions that are plaguing me as my alarm sounds off to signal it's Monday morning as usual and I've got to get ready for work. How can I go to work like this? What will I do? What will I wear? Why am I so damn horny?
The lacy green nightgown I'm wearing pitches a tent and I'm surprised I'm still thinking of men. One man in particular: Bryce. And now I'm wondering if this means I'm gay. I know for sure Bryce isn't. My family sure isn't a fan of gays either.
But none of this matters because who is going to believe that I woke up a man?
I stand up and find that having a penis is like a tail in front. I push it down to try and make it less noticible and it flips back up. I twist from side to side to see the effect of it still atached to my body. I bounce up and down and become irritated at the jostling of skin between my thighs. These balls are just useless!
I've got to see all this and I step into the bathroom in what feels like three steps because I'm suddenly much taller than normal. My thighs are like tryannasaurus legs and I stomp into the bathroom in front of my mirror still plastered with positive notes like: you are beautiful and strong, sassy, independent.
I am not a sight to behold but I am a sight. Still with some chunk but more muscle than before, I resemble a Jonas brother who has not been working out for two years. I'm softer than where they would be firm but I'd have to say that I'd sleep with me. The thought arouses me even more and my new friend replies by standing up taller.
"Oh, dear lord," I mutter, trying to push it down again. It seems that touching it is not the thing to do as it only encourages it. I'm not quite sure if I'm ready to use my lady skills on my new appendage, so I try to ignore it and move in closer to see the stubble on my face.
The sink is abruptly stabbed with my new member and I jump back in surprise. This thing keeps getting in the way! No wonder men can't think with this damn thing sticking out. I almost feel sorry for them.
Work crosses my mind and I try to distract myself more. The concern softens it like butter and now the urge to urinate strikes up out of my curiousity.
How hard can it be to aim?
Apparently, extremely.
I brace myself, legs wide apart, for a firehose stream to emanate from me with such force that I prepare to lean in. What comes out is a drizzle with too small of an arc to reach the bown and I feel the sprinkle on my feet as it pitters of the edge of the bowl and down the side.
"Dammit," I yell in a voice much deeper than usual. I add force and the parabola stretches further out until my stream is hitting directly in the center. Then the flow wanes and I'm striking the edge of the seat.
Irritated, I grab some toilet paper to wipe the edge and the smell reminds me of a bar restroom. At least I cleaned up after myself.