My father is in charge of time. He sets the clocks in our house and none of them ever read the same.Read More
The father of my lover was dying. He was of a generation (much like my own father) that didn’t talk about the past. The past had been rough. Some of us talk too much about the past, but…it’s hard to know someone who doesn’t speak of it at all.
My friend Ezra say, “Issss-taaanbuuul is like putting New York inside of Los Angeles. Super crowded. Shitty traffic. And thanks to Instagram, now we all eat kale.”
“This,” he says, “this represents the silence after they’ve come for your words. This is the sucking in of your belly the day your pants refuse to fit. And this is the sound is the sound a new city makes before your map has any real meaning.”
She liked her husband, Dixon. Occasionally she loved him, but she found liking him was enough to make a good life. Dixon drank. Most of the men in town did. Especially on payday.
She drops me at St. Francis Hospital and speeds off to her seamstress job, the sole income for our family at the moment.
I drag my feet down the antiseptic corridors having the first of a lifetime of existential crisis.
Pourquoi, does my German mother wants me to learn French ?
Pourquoi, do I have to spend the summer of in a hospital room?
Est plus important que tout ça, Pourquoi, is my father dying ?
“Tell me a story your mother told you when you were a kid.” My mom stands at the clothesline.I’m either 5 or 6 years old, already a trouble maker. I am lucky my house is full of books and my mother read to me every night. But what I wanted more than anything is a made-up story. One told by mouth.
After dinner my mother’s kitchen
turns basement cabaret.
-They call me naughty Lola/
The wisest gal on earth
as the dishwater soothes
the aches in her trigger fingers.
I had one of those orgasms
that comes on too fast
but makes up for it by
never seeming to end.
My mother never could sleep. Her soul, cracked open by dreams, reassembled itself at first light. She hated being in the house for too long, so Sunday mornings we’d wander around the edge of town in our pajamas and overcoats before anyone else was up.
I wish I could say stories come flooding through me. That I workup night sweats chasing my muse around in his nightgown and a week of mornings later I have FINISHED...something.