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"The Robe" (short story in progress)
It was the snoring that drove us apart.
I say this with utmost conviction; there are no hairs on my tongue.
It was that juvenile percussion arrangement, which clanked it’s symbols against my eardrums, not unlike a cartoon sequence. Those gaping nostrils under the ceiling fan; harmonizing like a frog’s choir!
It wasn’t because his lumpy, rectangular body swallowed the mattress; staining our bed sheets in a weathered sweat.
My Rapunzel ponytail (which, over time, became drenched in malignant hues) didn’t seem to conflict him: That wasn’t what yanked the romantic molecules out of our marriage.
It was- his snoring, in totality.
I know better than any that such a declaration sounds like a whimpy cover-up for years of marital anguish. I did the necessary research in desperation of igniting the pulse that slowed; our wind. So, when I tell you that it was the snoring, you must not question or raise an eyebrow. This is the grand truth.
Of course, now all I’m left with are memories of the wretched night-howls. The relentless heaves- in and out, which froze time and caused me to build an under-blanket colony.
I would stare with great beetle eyes at the ceiling for as long as I could stand it- and then some- more awake than alive (which is a terrible spell to be under). I’d flip over to my side and pour Barcelonian wine down my throat, in hopes of taming the vibrations which climbed up my sleep-skirt. That devil’s hiss- that mad clown sanskrit. I remained elevated with tiny shocks under my spine, clenching my hands, begging the gods to hush his dreaming mouth. I became the man in the moon, lighting up the night with my tempermental alertness.
Don’t think we didn’t try to lift the tumor in every which way: There were dental devices which hold the jaw forward, breathe-rite strips which open the anterior nasal valve, steroid sprays which decrease inflammation, until eventually our only remaining option was to sleep in separate rooms.
At first, the thought of sleeping alone worried me. My paranoia etched up intruders choking me until I too breathed in snores. I would have opted to fall asleep in our roman tub, but surely he would have given me that cold-sore stare, and who really cares for that? So, the guest room it was. It’s strange, having a guest room and never a guest. During my first night away from him, the air felt of melted dampness, like a sterile three-star hotel. I thought, I should leave tiny mints on the pillows. And lord only knows how long I had the linens for. They weren’t particularly handsome, they were guest room linens- neither here nor there. I don’t think I ever changed the sheets- there was no reason too. The only time either of us used the spare room was to dust, and apparently neither of us did a noteworthy job of doing so. My grandmother’s crystal animal collection sparkled against the wicker chest of drawers. When I was a kid, I would constantly badger her for the plump-piggy figurine, which glistened the color of rose quartz. It’s funny; now that she’s gone, I’d give just about anything to be nestled in her cottage, inhaling baked bread smells and her fine perfumes, with the little piggy overlooking her headboard. Time’s a funny chap that way.
There were two twin-size beds, side by side; like Lucy and Ricky. The one I crept into felt of stiff death- my spine seemed to be made of the same material. I tumbled about as gymnast would, but no good at all. Sigh, sigh, sigh.
(to be continued…)
Missing Angles
“You must find me”, I repeated in the letter, feverishly penning so as to set the glass bottle to sail. “Our chance is fleeting; these manifested daydreams are losing their rhythm. The number of angles on my face is too large to count by hand, and only a pinch of them were exposed to you. They were the wrong ones! There are more- there are plenty more, and I want to reveal them to you. Why do I with-hold the beautiful?
Only the crude shadows hovering above my eyelids have confronted you, and the ripples which dig themselves deeply around the corners of my smile: You missed my mouth stretching across and out when I look at you; the color of rosebuds which will stain your pale shrug indefinitely. You are unaware of the missing angles; of my coarse lashes which promise to lick your tears; and when you find me, I will hand them to you so that you may build a rocking porch-swing with sharp lines, and we’ll rock, rock, rock until Winter falls. Please hurry, the lights are dimming.”
(Untitled)
Grays, Tar, Fists. Lean opaque arms lengthening outward with upcurled fingers, triangular at the top. Not threatening; a pale Jewish girl with the smallest breed of puppy. Forensics better seal that door shut, I say! Love in close corners but I’m stuck with rare plants behind museum glass. I don’t know why! Nor does such an explanation matter or prove importance. It is what it is. It is still present and this fight is the excellent toast of the town. Can’t stop tracking your footsteps. I’m letting the thorns soak in this time.
Pace Trees
Is the apprehension a finale of mixed up faces? The churned cider will turn, and I turn inside and outside but I can’t find a stable boudoir. I never claimed to fill your aftershock cement, but my generosity of a speckled heart is something. We’ll never learn the proper way to bandage one another- I won’t thrive on that knowledge, or any for that matter… But if you can trust that I’m here against pink sunsets and my eyelids are calm, I think we might wake the senses. Too many insincere radio programs- I’m gonna walk with you, okay? I’m your wrap-around robe blossoming white fluffs. But, I can’t shine the edges of these nightmares until you can see that mere skepticism grows dull- and stops life sooner than death.
(Untitled)
She said, “It’s best to be without a husband if you’re gonna write, but you’re gonna keep tellin that same story of chewed up finger sides and beddy-bye rhymes; reflected frowns in eyeglasses: You can see right through. It’s all the same thing.”
All anybody wants is to be left alone. Fruit flies can feed on the trash as long as we’ve got our mattress and a closed bedroom door. All anyone ever wanted was for me to leave them alone.
“Baby, you’re not gonna suffer from asphyxiation. You will swallow. You forget happiness when tryin’ to make it through the day. Its only a heaving lung at a time. I understand.”
Only when I juggle the slowly am I really there. And then all the airports come back to me: I’m flying everywhere at once. Why couldn’t Frankenstein have been a girl? People don’t wanna love; only fascinate and fornicate. I don’t want to be touched. Only will I be touched when it’s real Sailor blood; braving the ice storm. I’ll take on a new shade, a friskier tiding. There’s some resistance, but mostly I’ve gotten used to blubbering whales. They’re all crying to me: “Leave me alone. Me alone. Alone.”
You’re gonna die from that big heart. I said, do you hear me? You’re gonna die from that big heart.
