No Word
Inglorious, traitorous language
that forgot an appellation
for our state of being
after
our child is dead.
Perhaps it was Order,
crackling violently with disruption,
that coerced language,
just this once,
to submit to knowing
wordlessness.
Fear of the General
Quivering light from candles
in frost-covered trees,
gives shadows to abandoned
trenches
of soldiers, right and
wronged,
who bury their kind
and gift the inhuman enemy
with
cigarettes and holy day
carols.
The general, facing
a bloodless, prickling fear,
seeks succor in knowing truces
–
no purview of the ordinary –
must cease and give way
to requisite war.
Darwin
He, condemned to a
fatal needle for being born,
saved by a Christian family
and condemned again
for perverting God’s plan by
having seven toes on each
paw,
rescued by the woman who
determined that any god who
could create what is
must appreciate the same,
shows devotion by pouncing
on her sleeping form,
demanding fresh water.
Last Words
“No worries,” he said.
“She can’t hit the broad
side of…”
And then he was dead.
Eyeshadow and Couches
I would like to know how much longer I will live. No, I’m
not sick and yes, my estate (as I laughingly refer to it) is in order.
Actually, I had great fun setting up my trust. Those grandkids who now think
I’m nice (they’re young) won’t be sad at my passing once they discover that a
bachelor’s degree or 80 years of age is required to get the 62 cents I’m
leaving them. (Shhh… don’t spoil the surprise.) No, I need to know how long
I’ll live for a much grander purpose: there is a shade of eyeshadow available
that I like and should I buy 28 or 57 packages? I can guarantee you that the
color won’t be there for long, if for no other reason than I like it.
Seriously. I mean, they even discontinued my brand of deodorant. Who does that?
It’s not that I don’t like change. I’ve used the same
antique trunk as a coffee table my entire adult life because I like it. I could
have bought a new one. Truthfully, I looked around the living room the other
day and realized that the only things I had bought new were the bookcases. My
mom disparagingly called my decorating style “Early American Relative.” That
isn’t true. Most of my furniture isn’t from relatives. They were finds. And, dang
it, they come with stories. (I like stories.)
So let me tell you about my couch and loveseat. Many years
ago, a friend and his co-worker were driving outside of Tonopah when they slid
on a patch of ice into the back end of a snowplow, totaling the car. I, being
the nice person that I am (no comments from the peanut gallery), drove to Tonopah
and picked them up. The coworker spent the return trip going on about how
grateful he was for the rescue. Fast forward a decade, and I show up at a house
where a guy is selling his couch and loveseat. He looks at me, frowns, and
says, “I know you.” I frown back, because I haven’t a clue who he is. “You
rescued me in Tonopah!” Guess who now has a new-to-me couch and loveseat? With
a story, thank you very much.
Now that I think about it, if my mother didn’t want the
stories-in-the-furniture to continue, then why did she give me her own trunk?
It is wood, painted olive green, and once held all her possessions when she and
my aunt happened to secure two seats on a troop train from Kansas to California
during World War II. Her eyes would get a far-off look and she’d smile at the
memory, not that I ever got a single detail beyond “they had fun.” Mothers.
Hey, now that I think about it, I did buy my dining room
tables new. They came in boxes. And, yes, there are two, because they are tiny,
square, easily moved, and one can serve as a craft/study table while the other serves
its original purpose. When I’m done, I butt them together and cover them with
one tablecloth. Come on, you really didn’t expect something ordinary, now did
you?
No comments:
Post a Comment