weekly muse...
volume 1, issue 21 | 2022-12-01
poetry
deaf
i watch the world with the sound turned off when people talk to me i smile no one knows i cannot hear what they have to say, not even me
-- from homebound
reservation
land dry as stone yet wood peels metal rusts glaring sun beats the earth like a drum stretched taut across bleached bones of ancestors squeezing magic from a rock like drops of dreams and tears
-- from along the way
untitled 1
there used to be a sign on my house it said “i slept here” i know because i painted it myself though the letters had faded so no one could read them last night someone took the sign away it was a perfect day to walk the streets hunting stray bullets where is the crazed gunman when you really need him?
-- from everything rhymes
cliffhanger
-- a translation of lines by william wordsworth hung between earth and sky clouds rushing by like my whole life passing before me, i cling to the ledge, a leaf on on a wall, the wind strips me away hollows my ear like a limestone cave singing to itself
-- from lives of the poets
glacial trail
stones crunch beneath my feet walking the earth another day -- from another day
short stories
wedding plans
…continued
December 1970, Escape to Mexico
The open-air, stake-sided truck heaved and yawed along as its wheels rolled up and down the cresting roads that twist their way through the mountain passes of central Mexico. Ren and Bob lay in the back of the truck on top of a penned-in load of sugar bags. They huddled their thinly clothed forms up close to the rear exterior of the cab, like two more burlap bags, to gain partial shelter from the back draft of rushing air as the truck sped along through the cold desert night. The full moon's glow gave them an eerie view of the narrow winding roads and the sheer valleys below.
Inside the cab, they could see the hands of the driver working the two-stick shift controls of the truck, rapidly moving from the steering wheel to the sticks and back again with each change of the grade. As they made the steeper turns, the driver's right hand moved swiftly through the air in a “sign of the cross”—forehead, sternum, left shoulder, right shoulder—all in one smooth arc like the flowing script of some exotic tongue. Then the hand would dart back to its accustomed place in the graceful dance between steering wheel and shift levers. His hands were in constant flight as he conducted them through his moonlit highway in the sky. The reigning virtuoso of the aerial drive.
They had awakened that morning on the Pacific Ocean beach at San Blas to the greeting bites of sand fleas in the glittering tropical sun. The nocturnal path of an iguana had gone directly over their sleeping bags as noted by his trail in the sand on either side of them. Shark fins made their way across the far horizon of the sea. Tarantula crabs scurried over the surface of misty rocks between surf and sand. Brightly plumed parrots flocked in the fruit-laden green of the jungle trees. A mound of giant shells lay next to a large kettle hanging over the open fire pit of a turtle soup factory. The people gathered in the midst of open air stalls made of tree limbs and dry grass lining the village square where dried beans, papayas, peppers and handicrafts were sold. The hotels and beach house condominiums were still many years away from this distant shore.
When the sun came up the next morning, it found them standing in the large cobble-stoned central square of Mexico City. The first customers of a fresh-squeezed orange juice stand. They watched as he sliced the oranges and squished them around on the fluted blades of a rounded plastic cone like a small sombrero. They could taste the warmth of the sun and the freshness of their young lives in the sweet pulpy juice. The sun hung low in the morning sky like a ripe lush fruit, a vivid orange.
-- to be continued...
-- from signs & wonders
lucy (losing the light)
…continued
“Sister Lucy.” Father Richard gave me a warm hug. “So good to see you.”
I didn’t mind him hugging, even though he wasn’t that much older than me. In fact, I liked it. His hugs always made me feel safe, like everything would turn out okay. He stepped back with open arms as wide as his smile.
“And why are we graced with your presence today?” He always talked that way. But he said things like this in a lighthearted manner, half-serious and half-tease.
“I’m here to drop off the tablecloths for the dinner tomorrow night.”
“Ah, yes.” He clasped his hands in front of his chest. “It was so kind of your mother to launder them for us.”
“Ironed,” I added. “She ironed them too.” What a fool, I thought. Why did I say that? Like a little kid looking for praise. I’m not the one who ironed them.
“Oh, yes.” He gently shook his folded hands for emphasis. “I’m not surprised. Your mother always goes ‘the extra mile’ in everything she does.”
The tablecloths belonged to the church. My mother volunteered to wash them for the Feast of Assumption tomorrow. Since ours was the Sacred Heart of Mary church, our parish made a big deal of this celebration every year. The cloths were already clean when she washed them, from the last time they were used. But she wanted to ‘freshen them up,’ remove any dust that might have gathered while they sat in the closet.
“That’s them?”
He looked toward Mr. Davidson, who had drifted down the center aisle of the nave with the stack of folded linens in his hands and my camera slung over his shoulder. He stood there gaping upward to where the slanted wood ceiling met the giant wall of vertical glass behind the altar. He was amazed at the stunning sight, like there was no ceiling and no wall. Behind the simple altar, beyond the glass, stood a crude wooden cross, planted among towering trees in a small clearing. It felt like the church was in the forest and the forest was in the church, a sheltering space, both open and deep.
Father Richard and I watched him in silence as he took it all in. This is how everyone reacted the first time they came here. After a while, he sensed our presence watching him and came back to the world.
“I’ve never seen anything like it!” He glowed. “I’m so glad I could see this …” He trailed off, without saying ‘before.’
“Yes. We love it.” Father Richard beamed.
“So simple. So bare.” He looked out again. “So beautiful.”
Father Richard walked over and took the cloths from him, like a policeman removing a weapon from a crazed man, at the cusp of surrender more than arrest.
“Father Richard, this is Mr. Paul Davidson.” I hesitated and then added. “The photographer.”
“Great to meet you!” Father Richard pumped his hand. “Do you have a studio here in the area?”
“Not that kind.” I interjected. “An art photographer.”
“Oh!” The father exclaimed with delight. “What do you do?”
“Large format.” Mr. Davidson answered. “Mostly black and white. Nice to meet you too, by the way.”
“No, I mean what kinds of subjects, topics, themes?”
“Oh, that.” The artist thought for a moment, and then answered, “humanscapes.”
“I see.” The priest nodded. “That sounds interesting. What is it?” He laughed.
“That’s an excellent question.” The photographer laughed too. “I guess the best way to describe it is that I take pictures of the human environment, without the humans.”
Father Richard nodded pensively.
“That’s what he’s known for.” I piped in. “Farms, factories, railroads, highways, places like that. But he shoots them without any people.”
“So, they’re abandoned?” Father Richard asked tentatively.
“Not always.” I volunteered to explain again. “They could be sleeping, before people wake up in the morning.”
“But, there’s always that dual sense of absence and presence.” Mr. Davidson added. “They are places that time passes by.”
“Fascinating.” Father Richard declared. “And is this what Lucille will do too?” Turning toward me, “human…scapes?”
“Oh, no.” Mr. Davidson now answered for me. “Lucy will do much more than that.” He enthused. “She is a portrait artist. Lucy does people, not places.”
It felt odd to hear him say this about me. How could he know? We only just met. Besides, there was this thing with accounting…
“In fact,” he added, “she would like to do you today. If you don’t mind?”
“Sure.” He smiled supportively. “That would be fine.”
I found the camera resting in my hand, with my…teacher…stepping away to give me room. I stared through the lens. My breath was still.
The Father was dressed all in black, his shoes, his pants, his short sleeve shirt, except for a white ring of cotton around his neck beneath the black collar. His face was square, like an escarpment, strong and sheer. His large round eyes were soft and warm, and matched his thick brown hair. An animal magnetism lit his face, the same spark that glowed in his sermons. He was handsome, emphatic, and kind. He grinned into the lens with the natural ease of a politician. He would be a mayor, I thought, if he wasn’t a priest, the kind of mayor that broods on his city like a flock. How did life make such men?
-- to be continued...
-- from summer’s end
microfiction | a history of the world
…continued
barber (hair artisan)
The first thing I notice is the hair. No two heads are the same. The swirl. The strand. The color. The feel. The signature coiffure.
My scissors and comb hover like wings. Weaving a nest. I love the feel of hair between my fingers. Like animal fur. The smell of lanolin and musk.
When I work up close, gently resting my chest on the head, a warm sensation spills over me. I puff on my cigarette. Careful to not drop the ash.
After, I sweep a flood of hair from the floor. I scoop it into a pan and put it in bags. Sacks of mingled hair. Waiting for their heads to come back.
-- to be continued…
-- from a history of the world