A Story

Once there was a woman who could have no children. This woman knew a little of witchcraft; one day she closed her eyes, whispered a secret word her grandmother had taught her, and spit into her palm. When she opened her eyes she saw, sitting in her hand, a tiny pearly frog. The frog stared at her with pale, blank eyes. Then it slid out of her cupped hand and hopped across the floor, leaving behind it a slick trail that gleamed like moonlight. The woman chased after the frog, but it crept under the door and disappeared before she could catch it. The strings of slime gleamed like strange writing on the floor. The woman thought there were secrets in it, but she did not know how to read them.

The next day the woman closed her eyes, whispered the secret word twice more, and spit into her hand again. This time she clenched her stomach and spit out thick black chyme, sour-smelling and bitter. When she opened her eyes, it had become a tiny green snake with transparent wings. The snake's shining green scales were hooked and bit into the soft skin of her palm; its belly was hot and burned her hand. She shook her hand; the worm spread its soft wings and fluttered unsteadily to the window. It flew out. Her hand was red and hot, and spotted with tiny holes where red beads of blood welled up. There were, she thought, secrets behind the pattern; but she could not understand them.

On the third day the woman closed her eyes one more time. This time she said the secret word three times, very loud. When she spit into her hand she tasted the angry sharpness of blood. She spit out the blood into her palm, along with a tiny round hard thing like a stone. When she opened her eyes she saw that the round thing was her heart. It was black. She pressed her finger to it, gently, and it blinked a dark eye at her. She saw that her heart was like a tiny lizard curled in on itself. The lizard did not uncurl; it closed its dark eye again and curled up tighter and tighter, until it disappeared. She was left with dark blood smeared across her palm. She could feel blood cracking and peeling stickily from the corners of her mouth; and inside her chest she felt the blank spot where her heart had been.

Coffined

Coffined, I woke. Wide eyed and blind, I breathed. Earthsmell, dank and heavy; woodsmell, faint and sweet. Six safe walls left splinters, hooked little comfort stings into my fingers stroking. O my doorless home, my eyeless box. I called it peace, i dreamed only to lie blind, to breathe unseen. Was it through the nailholes you seeped in, sweet cinnamon?

Wood around me, earth above me: helpless i breathe you now, piercing the damp earth smell, the wet wood smell. My dark home frangible, assailed by clarion cinnamon. With fragrant lemon, heady rose, jubilant tangerine. When I open my eyes, what gateless, what abundant burgeoning?

boneflute

Holy holy holy, Lord--
My bones cry out, my hollow bones

Over my bones You are
a bitter wind
you make them ache with angry
sorrow, let me alone
let me mourn my own unholy

let me mourn with hollow
bones, let me cry i,
i am unholy

Upon my sorrowbones You are
a crushing torment
Sound and resound: that heavy
Holy Holy
storm, you splinter
my bones

cry out angry, cry out lonely
hollow, now all longing
You break my bones with longing,
now Lord

make me a bowl, fill me
with

holy
holy
holy

PROTEST SONG

Before your bulldoze-love I throw myself down.

With all my body I protest

that mecha monster, that devouring beast—

Relentless, you roll on. The agony--my bones crack

beneath your teeth;

my wants fracture, fold,

form unfamiliar shapes around your tongue.

How long, my god! how long this mauling

this reshaping?
I am breaking in the teeth

of jealous love. In your teeth

I splinter into outrage

giddy desire

gratitude, and

grief

FLASH FICTION

You can really learn a lot from the Internet. It was a lot simpler than I anticipated – the skin, making the face expressive, was the hardest part. I couldn’t resist adding half a cup size, although I did precisely recreate my crooked ear. After a week of tests I was satisfied the thing would run smoothly. Would handle the customer service calls according to protocol. Would never misfile records on purpose. Would handle loans with equanimity and speed, reducing human stories to series of numbers contained within beige folders, filed with a thousand folders just the same. I was sure it would notice the oppressive wall of grey and white winter unaffected. Would cook supper, eat one full helping of my husband’s favourite dishes, never obsess over getting fat. Already, I noticed, the thing always remembered to shower, trim its nails, apply antibiotic to minor wounds. It didn’t seem lonely; it never cried. It did the laundry as soon as the hamper filled.  The thing was perfect. I put on my oldest black tshirt and my heaviest shoes. I cut off my long hair and hid it at the bottom of the trashcan. I took six boxes of books and two notebooks and all the pens I could find. I took my keys off the hook while he was at school. I’m driving south now. Even though it’s March and freezing I have the windows down, wondering if I miss the feeling of my long hair blowing across my face. I’m probing at the edges of the strange feeling in my chest, worrying it like a new filling. I’m driving lightweight, not sure if I feel free or empty, waiting. I want another hole in my ear. I wonder if he minds that I’m gone. I eat too little, drink gallons of black coffee and diet soda. I’ve never been west, never seen the desert. I wonder if it’s happy. I’ve never seen the west coast. 

327 words

Allegory II

So my allegorical poems were not allegorical.
They were extended metaphors.

I have been stuck on this stupid entry for WEEKS because the poem that I REALLY wanted to write, which really IS an allegory,

is
not
cooperating.

So I am posting a spludge of lines that may one day consent to be wrestled into an acceptable poem.

And THEN

we are trying Alliteration.

I like Alliteration. A lot.

Apocalypse

We’d nearly finished dinner when
the world ended. We saw the sky
flush orange, outside the blinds; then
a smell of burning. Missy cried,
the way small children do, surprised
by every change. We grownups waited,
reserving judgment. Seconds later
the angel appeared, with a terrible face,
wingless. We watched him walk
to the chipped piano. Not afraid—
we had no time to feel afraid—
just smelling the burnt smell outside,
while he stretched out one burning finger.
He played:
a tinny, tinkling Chopsticks,
incomplete.

The plinking died.

Then
the walls shivered, and a million little cracks
ran down to kiss the floor.
We stared.
We felt the hairs on our necks
prickle. And then we felt our house
crumble and leap up:
a wall of fire.

Astonishment (there was just time).
Our skin charred and then melted:
the smell was foul,
the pain
unendurable, until it ended.
We died

and watched the angel (as solid
shining as before) step up the sky
and disappear. And Missy cried.