there's a ghost in this house
infused with the silk dresses folded in trunks
in the damp cool of the basement,
the smell of age and rot
coming in over cedar chips
her presence is felt
in the squeaky hinges
in the bathroom with no lock
in the uneven ceiling
in the dishes dripping in their cradle
she turns up to watch our little lives
our bodies curled in aggressive sleep
and in the moments before we are fully awake
she is almost visible:
stare at the crack in the plaster walls
and her eyes shine through
the house's boards pop at night
like our spines
and we all swallow the truth:
the house isn't settling
she's settling in
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
According to the minister, we’re lucky to have found you, although I think you’d have liked it better up there, where the grass isn’t golf course green and the mourners are nonexistent. I wanted to scream when he said that but momma was leaning hard against me and her breath was coming in harsh against my ear and I stood there with making fists until I couldn’t feel the cold. Dad was holding on to her hard and his mouth was a straight colorless line and his breath came out his nostrils in big measured puffs like the steam train in the railroad museum back in Lincoln. I didn’t cry at all, just stood there feeling sick to my stomach and bracing myself against momma’s leaning. In the back of the group of mourners I saw David and his eyes were down and he avoided my gaze.
The minister was the young one from Partridge who you once told me gave you eyes, back when you came to church. He looked sad like an actor looks sad on one of those TV commercials for antidepressants. He paused too much. When he spoke, he fumbled over the words and sounded them out like a third grader—sa-salvay-salvashin-salvation. It was like Aunt Stu’s funeral, with the same fake-looking flowers and the same ugly black pinafores, only hers was open casket and yours wasn’t.
The tables were loaded with wedding-style lilies even though your obit said in lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the River’s Edge Animal Rescue Center. Each tablecloth had a neat stack of Thomas Mortuary Services’ business cards in a holder and they served bland finger sandwiches with diluted instant coffee afterward. It was the kind of thing that youd’ve laughed at and blamed the church for.
I think the hardest part is that all the dozens of versions of you I created in my head died, too. I made an Amy who went to college and got her degree in veterinary sciences and started an ASPCA. I imagined an Amy who grew her hair out and cut the blue tips off and wore flowery loose blouses and played guitar. There was the Amy who trained service dogs for wounded veterans and the Amy who fell in love with a kind young man who picked her up on the I-5 and drove her to Vancouver. There was an Amy who lived recklessly and pierced her ears with safety pins in truck stop bathrooms on the way to see Less Than Jake in San Fran. I made up Amys with tanned arms and Amys with tattoos and Amys living in Carmel as an accountant. Every one of those versions died when we found you.
I haven’t been up there yet. They say you were up there for three months until that guy found you. They say it was painless. They say that they’re looking for the driver that did it. I don’t think they’ll find him, and I’m almost glad. I don’t know what I think about that.
I wish we could have gotten you in across the street. The stones there are all soft from rain and there’s no lawnmowers or fluorescent turf. The only disturbances are when the horticulturists plant new roses. After it rains the clay soil sticks to your boots. Plots up there are hard to dig in to because of all the old growth trees, and I imagine the old coffins have roots wrapped around them, like the pictures of veins going around the heart in that Biology book I returned to the textbook room a month after you slipped out our window the last time.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
huddling over a stranger's phone in the streetlamp glare
your skeletal fingers slow and stained with nicotine
pupils shrunken
deer in the headlights
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
plucking pills from carpet fibers
scraping your hands through the couch cushions
snatching my allowance from beneath my mattress
prince of thieves
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
smiling for the kodak
cooing sonatas against her cold pretty ear
nervous fingers tying the corsage
casanova
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
peeking out behind worn fort walls
sketching monsters over saturday morning cartoons
fishing pole in hand
sweet thing
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
rewind the tape
first tottering steps
gummy smile
child of love
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can hear you
hello
yes
what do you need
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
I realized when the fish wriggled above me
and eddying currents of pyrite glinted like stars inches before my eyes
and wispy tentacles of my hair trailed my descent
that perhaps
just maybe
you deserved better.
You asked me permission to take a photograph
but this was in August
and what I remembered when your fingers fondled the shutter
was that once I was trying to take a test
but your shoulders were wide and clothed
and I studied the way your muscles worked
while you worked out formulas and graphed
and now you were in front of me
with your eyes squinted in concentration
twisting the lens toward my neck
and I felt as exposed
as exposed as the medical sketches in father's copy on Grey's Anatomy
skin flayed
veins pulsing
colored for ease of comprehension.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
This morning you opened a door for me
And asked me rather sweetly how I was
And I stared at my face reflected above your shoulder
And scanned it for emotion
Before nodding and saying fine.
You walked away to some masculine class
Where you lifted weights and complained about errant girlfriends
While I went to the restroom
Locked myself in a stall
And puked.
I suppose your dad made excuses before you could
I bet he assured you that it wouldn’t affect whatever sports you did at the time
I bet he thought about slipping a crisp bill in an envelope
And setting it on the superintendent's desk.
And I know you joked to your cocky little friends
That the ***** took everything too seriously
Because after all
You were only joking
Right?
The superintendent looked over glasses and pink slips of paper
And assured me that he knew your parents
And in fact your father had given him a root canal the day before
And he was very sure this was all some misunderstanding
And it would be resolved quickly and quietly.
I had to steel myself
I expected it
Waited for it
And there it was.
You probably just liked me.
That was the problem
You were so very confused
And ever-so-innocent
And a student who brought so much good publicity
Couldn’t possibly be a detriment
Could he?
It was just like in elementary
Where the bruises on my wrist
Were written away as a love bite
A little sign of devotion
And I should be grateful.
I hear you’re off to a college on the coast
For free
Even though you stole answers off my papers
And glances down my shirt.
I hope you enjoy it
I hope you pretend to care about physics
And I hope the essays you buy are worth the money
And I hope the parties are lively
And the ***** rich.
But when you slip
In the backseat of your Mercedes
Because you liked her too much
Don’t believe what they tell you
I' ll know your guilt
As clearly as the moonlight caught in her watering eyes
And I will make you know it.
Until then
I’ll square my shoulders
Rinse the taste from my mouth
Glare at myself in the fluorescent light
And will the emotion away
One more time.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
The wharf was busy; it was a Saturday and the sun was high in the sky. Strangely enough, it was hot. She wanted to get to the deYoung in time.
Eliza pulled impatiently on the hand and pulled her toward the circle of people, who were no doubt watching a street urchin or a performer.
“No, honey,” her mother said, “not today.” Eliza didn’t listen and ran up, wedging herself between the bodies of bystanders.
“Look, mommy! It’s a game.”
The man was a con, Marie knew this. She let Eliza gander.
“One dollar a play, ladies and gents,” the man said, “sorry sweetheart, kids aren’t allowed.” Eliza looked up at her mommy and pushed a dollar in to her hand. Not wanting a scene, Marie smiled and put it down.
“Just once, darling,” she said through whitened teeth and a botoxed smile. She didn’t know why she was doing this. It came to her in the moment and so she acted.
The man put a ball in the cup and told her to watch so she did. His hands were swift and mesmerizing. She knew that the ball was under the right one. She pointed. He lifted. It wasn’t there. Eliza wanted to know if she could play and if not why. Her mother told her that it was a big girl game and little girls couldn’t play. Eliza started crying so Marie put down another dollar and let her watch, just to get her to shut up. The man twisted to cups again and she failed. It happened again. And again, and again. The deYoung would close, she knew, but nothing could compare to the feeling of winning. In the end, the man got twenty of her dollars. The museum wasn’t so important.
When they were in the Saint Francis’s elevators, Marie bent down and smiled at Eliza.
“When poppa asks, dear, remember: we went to the museum and had a splendid time.”
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
the sheets are green
with veins of colored clothing:
a pair of jeans,
a t-shirt,
a single sports sock
illuminated by a lamp craning its neck
the fitted sheet has opened its lip
and grinned a strip of stained mattress
against the wall
your silhouette
rakes its hand through its hair
lungs expanding against cracking plaster
your arms refract on the spines of textbooks
and nicnacs your mother sent you from your room at home
usually I force myself coherent by now
but tonight I am content
watching you and your clinging twin
living lives identical but changed
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
This town is too small for secrets
The sidewalks are adorned with names and dates
Of couples whose love dissolved twenty years ago
While moss oozes out of the letters.
This town is too small for secrets
Through windows at night
The citizens play out their dollhouse lives
And dysfunction is locked away in grandmother’s armoire.
This town is too small for secrets
Where bars close at seven in the morning and open an hour later
And the tenders are purveyors of free psychiatry
Who put advice in bowls between stale peanuts
And place them on the counter.
This town is too small for secrets
Every hour the two churches compete for the loudest bells
But the protestant one always wins
And the Catholics having mass ignore its pleading voice
But whisper politely in each other’s ears
About the scandalous protestors out on Main.
This town is too small for secrets
With its coffee shops littered with youth
Who deny their wealth through coffee steam
And discuss the state of countries they can’t place on a map
And slowly leach out in to the frigid rain
Back to new cars and million-dollar homes
Where daddy pays the bills.
This town is too small for secrets
The college students drink their scholarships in red plastic cups
And scuttle towards their shared flats
Collapse in to bed too tired to sleep
Stare at the ceiling and wonder why they didn’t transfer
Three semesters ago.
This town is too small for secrets
With its gated communities of retirees
Where the homes are manufactured
And the walls papered with the smiling faces of clean-cut grandchildren
And the rebellious ones packed away
From the neighborhood gossip’s prying eyes.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
What if Neil tripped down those famed steps
One small st-
And collapsed in a heap of vacuum-resistant debris
Cracked glass and aspiration
Shame-sweat beading on his brow
And the president’s hands hit his horseshoe forehead and he frowned like the big man he was
And the mayor pounded his fist against the mahogany recently polished by the secretary
And the wrists of socialite women hit their foreheads and they gasped and crumpled on to couches white with scrubbings
And the children thought he was ducking-and-covering, just like Ms. Merryweather said
And the Haight-Ashbury hoodlums didn’t notice because the needle was already sunk in like incisors
And the traitors giggled fuck-you's in their colonies festering like mold?
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
She sat in an empty booth. It was a Tuesday, mild, with a thin veil of cirrus clouds on the horizon. Somewhere a dog barked. Outside, the Commercial Street Flower Market opened for business. A ********** stood on the corner.
With one the sitting woman opened the menu, scanned it, and dropped it back on the table. A bleach-blond waitress arrived. Before the waitress spoke, the sitting woman cut in.
“I’d like home fries, fruit salad, and a cup of earl grey, please.” The waitress nodded, slightly wary, and scribbled the order on her yellowed order pad. The woman went back to staring at her fingers. The waitress left.
She opened her purse, rummaged around, and grasped a worn paperback of Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. A small likeness of a snake twirled up her left index. She wore beige eye shadow and a full set of fake lashes. Her nails were lacquered candy apple red. There was a large scar on her neck. Sighing, she settled in to read. The snake ring’s eyes were rubies; as she turned the page, they glistened brightly. The café’s door jangled. Seconds later, a man slid in to the seat opposite her.
“You’re late,” she said. The man smiled. He had lidded Egyptian eyes and a set of straight, white, fluoridated teeth.
“So terribly sorry. Pressing issues.” He tapped a finger on the plastic table. The woman licked a finger and turned a creased page.
“Still reading that blasted book, are we? How many times has it been now, Laura? Twelve?”
“Fifteen, to be exact.” The waitress arrived with plates of bright fruit and steaming potato. She waitress had poorly tattooed eyebrows. They rose.
“Can I get you anything?” she said to the man.
“Strong cup of coffee. Two cubes sugar, slice of lemon on the side. Thanks.” The waitress smiled.
“Certainly. Your tea will be in, miss.” Laura nodded. The waitress sashayed off and the man leaned in, breaking the barrier between them.
“Why are you still reading that godawful book? Wasn’t once in Junior year enough?”
“No, it wasn’t. If you don’t mind, let’s get to the point. What are you doing here, Jack? I know it has nothing to do with harassing me over my literary opinions.” The book closed with a muffled snap. She slid it back in to her large purse and adjusted her dress.
“I got the part.” He said the two words with barely veiled excitement; they sounded unnatural and foreign.
“What in the name of God are you talking about?” she asked. She stabbed a home fry with her fork and sprinkled it with salt.
“I’ve made it in, Laur.” He said. She dragged the fry through a small puddle of ketchup and smiled. She leaned back and drew her hands through her hair, bit her lip.
“Who’s directing?” she asked. The waitress arrived again and they both leaned back, away from each other. He nodded his thanks, blew on his coffee, and drank deeply. She dipped her finger in the cup of tea.
“Some guy by the name of Cranston. Will, I think. He’s good. Directed a film called The Devil in Whitethorn. You might call him an artist.”
“Oh, Christ. You’ve made your big break, have you? With a ****** arthouse director no one’s heard about? I’m impressed, Jack. Real impressed.” She sipped her tea. “What’s your deep, philosophical movie about, Jack?”
“A man dragged wrongfully in to hell who has to prove to the Devil that he is a good man,” Jack said. His chin rose slightly. “he goes through his life as an invisible man, observing all of his human mistakes. Eventually he discovers that Hell is just another version of Heaven and it’s all a test to get him to look at his life as an outsider. I play the college version of the lead. I’m third-highest billed.” He reached over and snatched a strawberry from her plate. She smirked.
“Wow,” she said, “sounds deep. Almost like one of the sappier episodes of The Twilight Zone, twist and all. Tell me, does Shatner play a PTSD-riddled man who sees monsters on an airplane? Is the Devil a fan of billiards? How many aliens are in this movie of yours?” she smiled at him, exposing a line of somewhat crooked teeth. “A movie, huh? Congrats.”
“Many thanks. I thought that someone who appreciated the subtle insanity of Vonnegut might appreciate a good deep film. Are you going to finish those?” he gestured at the fries. Six of them remained. Laura slid them across the table and tucked in to the fruit plate. “No more awful local commercials for me, love.” She scoffed at that.
“You’re a crap commercial actor. How much money are you getting for this little highbrow film of yours? One K or two?” She stabbed a honeydew square and crunched it between red lips.
“Four, doll. More than you make in a month.” Her cheeks reddened.
“I don’t need much, Jack. You of all people should know that.” She coughed lightly in to her napkin. “You’re a tricky ******* How long have you known?” He licked a spot of ketchup off of his finger.
“Oh… Five weeks? Six? Somewhere around there. We start shooting next month.” He leaned forward, lightly brushing the back of her hand with his fingers. “It’ll premier downtown on the seventh of July. Be prepared, since I’m dragging you out there with me. You’ll need a cocktail dress and modest makeup.”
“How modest is modest?” she asked. He surveyed her face, scanning with his eyes squinted slightly. Her face flushed a touch more.
“Hmm…” he said, “drop the red lipstick, add a few more spots of cover-up, light champagne eye shadow and less blush. Also, ditch the falsies.” She laughed, a light trill.
“I don’t leave the house without them. I suppose I can scour my collection for some more… What was the word you used? Modest pairs.” His fingers stopped rubbing the thin, veined skin on the back of her right hand for a short moment.
“In other words, you’ve said yes.”
“Yes, I have.” He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table and stood up. “Call me some time. You haven’t forgotten my number, have you?” Laura grinned. He picked up the lemon, separated the meat from the rind, and rubbed the white flesh on his teeth.
“No, I haven’t.” He dropped a single white envelope on the table. She surveyed it, placing it next to the tattered paperback in her purse. He walked away.
“Oh, and Jack?” she called without looking back at him. He stopped mid-step. “I wasn’t wearing blush today.”
He grinned harder, waved his goodbyes to the waitress, and left. The door jangled. She finished the last dregs of her tea, dropped a twenty dollar bill on the table, and stood up. It was a beautiful morning. She walked outside. The bells on the entrance jangled, stilled, and their song died.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC