weekly muse...
volume 1, issue 17 | 2022-10-19
poetry
trial separation
in practice for your death i find no place not covered with us like dew on grass or cancerous tissue sticks to cells
-- from homebound
pastorale
stream banks cut through hills that thought they could outlast our view grass clipped low by unseen herds of grazing cattle migrant workers gone with the season
-- from along the way
fireworks
a thousand fingers of piercing light reach for me in the night sky tickle my ribs with their blast like everyone else i sit in the grass at the center of this explosion
-- from everything rhymes
bicycle thief
-- for vittorio de sica, filmmaker each time i lock my bike to the post with its thick chain you rob me again
-- from lives of the poets
flower garden
mixing colors all summer long she clings to the season every year as if it were her last another day -- from another day
short stories
wedding plans
…continued
February 1995, Matching Pair
They sat in a built-in stand of wooden bleachers along the length of an indoor collegiate pool. A thin coat of permanent humidity and chlorine gas stuck to the skin of their faces and under their collars. Shades of condensed vapor muted the light of narrow window slats near the top of the building walls. The slow procession of a swimming and diving meet went on intermittently in the pool below. UIC vs. Villanova.
Marie climbed the thin metal ladder to the top of the high diving board. The dark navy blue swimsuit fit perfectly snug on the contour of her torso like the skin of a lithe aquatic creature at play in its watery world, cousin to the otter and the seal. She stood at the back of the board. Her face and body fused in a single pose of concentration. Three light steps, a hop, and a bending of the long board sent her pelted body flying in an arc through the air as she straightened out into a single line parting the water with the tips of her hands. Ren and Bob and Robert clapped and cheered from their varnished seats.
“Way to go Marie!” As her shiny, smooth capped head popped up through the surface of the pool with a broad smile on her face.
In between events, Bob and Robert each sprawled out on separate rows of the empty bleachers, one above the other. Bob reading his computer journals. Robert his philosophy books. Both staring down at their pages through gold wire rimmed glasses. Lost together in their separate worlds of printed words and thought. Oblivious to their surroundings. Sitting silently in their flannels and jeans. The pair made quite a site.
Marie looked over from where she sat on the team bench on the pool deck. Watching the two Bobs read. She glanced at her mother and motioned toward them with her eyes and head. Ren turned her own head toward them, and then back to Marie. They both shook their heads and smiled at each other in a bond of mock commiseration.
-- to be continued...
-- from signs & wonders
lucy (losing the light)
…continued
“Hey Loose.” Darryl flashed his quick smile.
“What’s up, big guy?” Darryl wasn’t actually big, at least not tall. He was about five-foot-six. But he weighed over two hundred pounds, all muscle. His produce clerk’s forest green apron fit like a football jersey stretched over shoulder pads. His hair, tightly braided in black dreadlocks, surrounded his head like a helmet.
“Just keepin.” He shrugged, more with his head than his shoulders. “What you need today?”
“Baby bok choy?”
“Not today.” Darryl shook his head and frowned apologetically. “Big shipment tomorrow. Maybe in that.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I reassured him. “I can find everything else.”
“Just let me know.” He picked up a huge crate of cantaloupe.
The produce section of Panteras Finer Foods spread out around him like an overflowing field. Large square bins were stacked with squash, potato sacks, melons, peanut bags, apples of red, yellow and green, peaches, purple grapes, fresh corn, and more. Along the outer wall, misters sprayed cut greens, lettuce, carrots, peppers of red, yellow, and green and orange (strikingly different from those same colors in the apples), cucumbers, scallions, and other fresh vegetables. Darryl stood in the midst of it all with his bright white smile in his dark black face, the lord of the harvest, like the Jolly Green Giant in his green produce smock.
“How’s it looking today?” I asked him about the company’s plans to close the store, supposedly due to high labor costs.
“Day by day.” His warm brown eyes danced a hurtful waltz across his worried brow. “No news so far. What can you do?” Then he broke a broad smile again.
Darryl always made me feel good just to be in his presence. He was so kind and friendly, with a warm natural smile. If everyone was like Daryl, I thought, this world would be like heaven, no matter what. ‘Salt of the earth,’ my father would call him. Or, ‘pepper’ would be more like it in Darryl’s case.
Mr. Davidson cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry.” I pointed to him, holding my camera. “Darryl, this is Mr. Paul Davidson, the famous photographer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sir.” Darryl bent to put down his crate to shake hands.
“No please.” Mr. Davidson held up his palm. “Stay just like that.”
Darryl lifted the crate back up to his waist. “You here for my picture?” He grinned with a self-conscious air of mock vanity.
“Not me.” He handed the camera to me. “Lucy.”
“Great.” Darryl beamed. “Even better.”
He mugged for the photo. A fierce pride and nobility burned in his eyes I had never seen before. The heavy crate turned into a small leather ball he held at his waist with an easy grace. He posed for the camera in the end zone after scoring the winning touchdown. His face glowed with triumph no store closing could ever take away. I felt bad that the camera had no film to capture this.
-- to be continued...
-- from summer’s end
microfiction | a history of the world
…continued
swimmer (mountain lake)
The moment between the jump and the splash. No turning back. It is set in motion.
The water will drink you like a cold glass.
Your body bleeds its heat. You cannot warm the lake.
Swimming hard. Once you get used to it. It is still deathly cold. Invigorating.
Crawl up on the rocks. A new life form, shivering with first breath. What is it about this birth, this death? That makes you do it again.
-- to be continued…
-- from a history of the world