I am staying at my lady’s house over break and we have had a few busy busy days. We leave for Louisville tomorrow to go visit Lora [another adorable chicklit who we miss]. But, the most important thing to note is that today is fucking MARDI GRAS and I AM NOT IN NEW ORLEANS. That really blows. I mean really really blows. But, I am going to make beignets tonight if it kills me! [the cooking won’t, but the amount of donuts ingested might]. Dalton and Liz [Lindsey’s roomies] are going to help us eat them. I HOPE.
Also, I should apologize. The Chicklitz are on SPRING BREAK and it’s a fun and sexy time for us. Basically I mean, we’re all traveling or catching up on much needed sleep. So, err. My post today is going to be a peice that I am working on for Slash Pines Poetry Festival.
P.S. if you like this stuff or Layne’s stuff or really any of the Chickz, cause we’re all comin’ out of the same great school, you should check this out and donate [sorry, had to use the dirty word there] if you can. Tyler Gobble, Layne Ransom, Jeremy Bauer and myself are all going to be at Slash Pines and could use your help!
There are Tides
Sometime after, when all the bananas fell against a spidery kind of dark and the children walked into the sea looking for their mothers, the Man-on-the-Moon decided his fate. He had been watching as the tides scraped at the land. He’d seen the panic, the froth of water kissing the sky as it swallowed a piece of the earth.
Sitting with his knees under his chin, he sifted the thick lunar sand through his fingers. Before him, the galaxy spun wide like a fishing net over the darkness. He thought infinite then remembered how all things smack of this word, at first.
He’d been there, spilling the sand over his feet for a long time. Some say he was with the moon always. But all the space sounds in his ears are the words from before: Betty Crocker, Gene Kelly, Frigidaire, Colgate, and Camel.
He sees the Moon, a glow-cheeked woman with pale lips like tuber roses. She is a warm body pressed to his. She is round with life. They lay in the dark for a long time, not speaking. And when it is morning, She has rolled toward the fault line, the space between a mattress and a wall. The space that smells of sweat and lost things. This is Her day. This is Her night. And, he lies with his body small against Her, his mind thick with words.
A small fishing boat on a small sea houses a small family. They have a brown cat with lank hair and green eyes like knife points. Every morning they sit together, starboard at a wooden table. The table bolted to the ground. And when the small sea whips under a veined sky, the family disappears, their table upside down in the water.
“Why?” he asked.
She did not answer.
When he left Her, he told himself it was to find the other. The one outlined in halogen. The one with hair in curlers. The one who read magazines. The one who made turkeys for every commercial holiday.
She would be simpler.
This time, he would marry the gal old fashioned, maybe.
When he left Her, he didn’t immediately think of his mother.
Though sometimes, he would remember his mother’s suitcase. The green tweed and the bamboo handle. He doesn’t know what’s inside. He never did. But he sees it, by her feet, as she waits for something. The door opens. There is noise. Yelling:
His father once said, All good women are like your mother.
His father once said, Your mother’s only cage is the sky.
Rush of footsteps. The door slams and the suitcase is gone.
There was a day in the sun. They camped on the beach and he remembers sitting, working his baby toes through the sand, watching his mother. She looks at him from far away. She was always far away. She tells him to watch the sky. When it turns night, he is still watching. She says, see that? She points to the opalescent disk. I will get that for you.
The wind slows and she walks toward the water. She moves with the tide, until she is standing in the middle of the moon.
The-Man-on-the-Moon (no longer on the moon) lays facing the wall alone. The room is kind enough to be bare walls, free of windows. He closes his eyes anyway and rests his hands beneath his head. They are shaped to hold things.
He inhales the scent of lost things.
It is more familiar than his own breath.