Things are never as magnificent as they seem. The best people in the world are filled with too many holes to be complete. I’m no exception, but at least I’m aware. Take this life and live it like it’s your only one. Take this love and shove it.

Contemplating Distances

What to do when you’re all tangled in blue? If I was a musician, I’d have written you twenty songs by now. Until then, I offer meager words, a pitiful penance.

The Morning After

A dim click

in my brain rises

like the metallic,

 

salty bile jerking

from my chest

to the back

 

of my throat.

I am gyroscoping

toward the porcelain

 

comfort of toilet,

wretching past

the crack of ribs

 

until I am empty

as the first grimy

blooms of regret.

 

From somewhere

in the black, I know

the lump entombed

 

beneath pallid hotel

sheets is not you,

but before terror

 

rushes in, I place

my palms firmly

across naked breasts

 

and study his

silhouette of chin,

jutting nameless

 

as the snow-draped

Confederate grave

I decorated one

 

January morning,

splintered in light,

unseasonably warm.

Soliloquy from character IONA in short play-Moonflower

IONA

Last night I stayed up, waiting on him to come home.  I sat out on the porch swing beneath a damp, measurable blackness and listened to the swamp sounds until I could make out voices.  After a while, the shrill calls of tree frogs and cicadas made better sense to me.

I recognize this language; it’s primeval, one we all used to speak.

I watched the moon flowers expose their fragrant faces to a fingernail clipping of moon.  The white throats of the flowers summon luna moths from the muggy darkness, promising a taste of bliss.  If you could see how the luna moths cling drunkenly to the vines, satiated and bloated with the night’s nectar, you might understand how I need him.

I wanted him to walk up those steps and sit beside me.  I wanted him to run his rough hand along my cheek, finding it slick to the touch.

Later, when our bodies are done slithering on one another, I would bring him back out to the porch for a late cigarette.  I want to show him how a luna moth can dance when I pin the tip of its wing to a board.

The moth becomes a lime gyroscope.  It spins violently.  No, exquisitely.  I want him to watch the moth grow weary.  It circles the pin slowly, dragging limp, heavy wings behind it.  And, as soon as we grew tired, we would move back to our bed and curl into a dreamless sleep, abandoning our neon beauty to the screaming night.

Lights dim.