Hope

I buried the doll behind a tree.  Just as I was arranging some sticks and dead branches to camouflage the grave, a small, fluffy champagne-colored thing appeared from behind a bush.  It had large, dark eyes, and a face so flat it almost curved inward.  Barely clearing the ground, the moving fluffball either had no legs, or legs camouflaged by mass amounts of fluff.  Its head seemed too large for its body and in general the creature was so odd that for a moment I thought it must be some kind of alien from outer space.  Only once it barked in a friendly sort of way did I realize it was a dog.  “Hello,” I said, a bit uncertainly. 

The dog bared crooked teeth at me in a comical attempt at a smile.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

The dog just snuffled.

When I then sniffled, drying the last of my tears with my sweater sleeve, the dog shuffled over and gently head-butted my ankle.  I leaned over to pet it, which the dog seemed to like very much.  Suddenly grateful, I kissed its head.  It smelled like vanilla cake.

Running Away

Whisper it to me while no one is listening

tell me I am a fool

tell me I am not

tell me something that makes sense

and then prove it

Already forgotten

Welcome to March

to all of its muddy heaving

no one knows what will happen next

because we are rolling

we are full of violent and

intemperate fantasies

We are alive in the dead month

when we could have danced on

top of silos filled with

summer's harvest

felt ourselves tumble amongst

champagne skies

with you I might have smelled the

promise of damp

earth

Instead we shovel slush together

break our elbows as

we slip on what we

thought were only

shallow puddles

But we are still brimming full

so let's scythe the progression of

our destruction together

right here

right here in the fields that dare awaken

once again

Now is so unlovely and so surprising

so full of resolutions never predicted

I know nothing more

than this

We are what is dead

Survival

“Just before your friend Andy came up here,” Alturis said, peeling an apple with meticulous attention, “he shot and killed someone.  Did he tell you that?”

            Meg shook her head.

            “Well he did,” Alturis answered.  His tone was no longer light.  “Even more unfortunate,” he went on, “that person happened to be my brother.”

            Meg just looked at him.

            “Apparently your Andy had never killed someone before.  It disturbed him.  So he took a leave of absence and came here.  Which is where we found him.  And you,” Alturis added graciously, as if it were impolite to not mention her place in his diabolical scheme.  “Bad information led me to—what was their name?—the Gergens or the Bourbons or whoever.  It’s hard to find good help nowadays.”

            “I wouldn’t know.  I’m not in the market for henchmen.”

            “And a good thing for you, too.”

            “But that doesn’t explain what you want with me.”

            “Doesn’t it?” he asked, smiling again.

Magic's end

      

Forgive me this arrogance 

this undeniable conceit

Too foolish to understand

what surrender would mean

Fire storm

This sea                                 filled with raging suspicions

polluted by the debris         of 1000 amazing inventions

not one in which I could believe

were you caught

in the fire storm of a million

conversations

or lost

in a dying admission

because just one thing I can show

and that is I am here                          

without you                         

alone

               

perhaps                 

just as it should be

here in our graveyard of

convictions

one last night

of fading ambition

your promise on the end of my fingertips

and it falls

it falls

daylight a shade too deep

I want to know

one day I must know

was it ever thus?

the clouds mirrored in our eyes

the end of apology

the apocalypse of

us

The light above

             Cathy sent me a one line email.  It read, Michael’s drinking again.

            I laid my head down on my arms and started to cry such violent, bone-shattering sobs, that Louise ran into the room.  “What’s wrong?” she asked me.  My head still down, I jabbed at my screen.  After a moment I heard her say, “Shit.”

            “This is my fault...”

            “Of course it’s not your fault.  He’s an alcoholic—that’s what alcoholics do.  They drink.”

            “He’d been sober for 14 years!”

            “Well, you didn’t buy him the booze, did you?  He could have gone to an AA meeting if he was that desperate,” Louise returned.  “It sucks, and I really like him and wish him well, but he’s being a moron.  I mean, it’s not like this will get you back, or change what’s happened.”

            “What he’s been through would be too much for almost anyone,” I protested.  “He felt so guilty about all of it.”

            “Then he needs to find himself a good therapist and snap out of it.  Mom always let Dad get away with his drinking, blaming it on one thing or another, and look what happened.  He never had to change because no one ever held him accountable.”

            When I just shook my head, Louise’s expression softened.  “He’s a smart guy,” she told me.  “He’ll figure it out.  I don’t believe for a minute he’ll still be drinking by this time next year, so stop worrying, okay?  This isn’t your fight anymore.”

When he dropped me I fell 

and it was close, the ground              so close that I could smell the

grass as his fingers loosed

their hold

somehow I forgot to wave goodbye
forgot that without him 

I could not fly