Kitchen Poem

He doesn’t flinch
When the pan’s hot edge
Sears his skin,
Branding him
With a baker’s tattoo

Mom always said
He wasn’t your typical drunk

Cold Feet

            “Why are your feet always so goddamn cold?”

“Fuck off anyways,” I say. I shift so that my feet are far from his. We fall asleep back-to-back, making sure not to touch.

The next morning his hand is down my pajama pants, bright and early. That’s what woke me up; he thrust it there like he does sometimes. I don’t turn around to face him, he doesn’t try to kiss any part of me. After sex I roll over, grab my smokes and fumble for my lighter in the drawer. I don’t turn towards him until I’ve had a few good drags.

Later on we go to Mel’s for some Eggs Benny. The fat waitress keeps coming back to refill our dirty mugs – we’re drinking like a couple of camels. The jukebox thing is stuck on “It Had to be You” and he gets up to change it. It doesn’t switch so he kicks it.

            “Nice day,” the fat waitress says. Her make-up looks like she put it on about a week ago. Greenish crusties in the corners of her eyes. I wonder if she’s ever looked in a mirror before going out in public. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t bother with that either, if I were her.

            “Nice enough day,” I say.

            “Yup, she nods, “warm anyways.” I then notice the sweat beads on her hairy upper lip. I look away.

Another Day

  “When will you be back, Arnold?”

“Don’t wait up.”

“But what time will you be home?”

“I dunno. Could be a late one. Not sure.”

“Well, what time does your shift end?”

“It might be a late one tonight.”

“I don’t know why I put up with this shit.”

“What shit?

“This shit. You.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Don’t laugh. One morning you might wake up with one of your famous hangovers and roll over and feel my side of the bed cold.”

Love Letter

I can't leave you,

I can't stay.
Every time I go,
Your colours stay
In my tale.

Green covered hills
Seem soft
Against grey-blue
Sky,
Wet air and slick rocks by
Navy blue-grey 

Sea.

This is a simple love
Letter,
One that I’m always secretly
Righting
Into your brave winds.

This is no farewell
Said again:
I can’t leave you,
You’re too full of sheltering bays
And heavy anchors.

I can’t stay.
Hold your hills, green
Vast grey ocean,
I’m always returning
To show you my Mandarin kites,
Wings.

Clever Peter

Ever since Peter was a young boy in school, it was evident to all who knew him that he was very clever. He was the kind of boy, who, when asked a question, always had an answer. And most of the time, he was right.

Saturday Morning

Six o'clock, Saturday morning

I am awake.

First craving is for you.

Letting it go, I slide

Into early Saturday solitude

And out of bed.

Shock of cold

Snapshots

Photo #1: Sleepover at Renee's 

 Pale grey sky
Filters soft Saturday
Morning light

We two
Politely parallel
Prim on wicker

Nine year old
Bottoms pressed
On soft grey

Tuesday Afternoon #1

The man sitting at the bar two stools down from me has thick hands. They're thick with muscle and tough skin. I wouldn't normally notice muscles in another man's hands but this guy has muscular hands, if you saw them you'd agree. You might even notice his hands too, like I did; they stand out somehow, against the glass he's holding. I think he's drinking whiskey. A whiskey glass is thick, but as you might imagine, his hands dwarf it.

Traffic

Bare morning,
Almon and Robie,

Waiting on red to go green
Suddenly
The gathered motion
Of idling engines,
Crucial coffees,
The bright late
Autumn wind
Flew

Muscled haunches,

Sinew,
Real power
Among rubber and
Steel impostors
An arc,
A reminder
Hooves on asphalt
Where once were woods.

Sketches of Anna: #1

Anna bent over her swollen right knee, her grave young face hidden behind a dark curtain of hair. Her skinny legs and feet were bare, and when she shifted the damage was visible. I tried not to look at the hundreds of tiny indentations, some reddened with blood where the grains had broken the skin’s surface.
I moved from the doorway before she looked up to see me; I knew my pitying look would be unwelcome.

In our room I flopped on my unmade bed and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. The early winter light outside was fading, making the room cold and dark. I looked across the room at Anna’s bed, sheets pulled across tight and neat. It could have been me in her place. But it never was and it never would be. Anna, Danny, Momma, and me, we all knew it. Anna was no worse behaved than Danny or me, not even really any clumsier. But if a glass slipped out of her hands and smashed on the floor, all hell broke loose. And if it was me or Danny who’d done it, all hell broke loose again, but Anna would still have to pick up the mess and suffer the damage.

Momma was dozing in the armchair, half emptied whiskey glass keeping her company on the side table. Momma usually returned to the living room after punishing Anna, leaving the poor girl to sweep up the grains of rice she’d been made to kneel on. Today punishment lasted just over an hour. About average. I suppose Anna could count herself lucky – if Momma had been in a worse mood, Anna could have been made to kneel on the shards of glass covering the dirty kitchen floor. It wouldn’t be the first time.