Missing Wishes (unfinished)

I wish I didn’t miss your lips
Your waist
Your weight
The weight of your gaze
I wish I didn’t miss your lisp
Your toes
Your nose
Your  I don’t know…
I wish I didn’t miss your kiss
Your face
Your gait
The gate to our place

 

The Mosquito

It was the hottest July anyone could remember, including Mrs. Ida Caraway, who had lived a respectable 94 years. Friday and Saturday afternoons, everyone but the most distinguished old ladies lived at the water, frolicking through the disappointingly warm waves. Sundays, the preacher could barely be heard over the droning of flies and the soft swish of paper fans.

Antonio was one of the Caraway’s farmhands. All day, he labored under the sun’s autarchic glare, pounding the ground with his sledgehammer, and removing the rocks that ran tremors up and down his arms

Even after the sun had relinquished control to his more civil second in command, the relief was negligible. The night air was thick and oppressive, and it clung to Antonio’s face like an elderly aunt’s sticky kiss. “Weather like this could drive a person crazy,” was Mr. Caraway’s constant refrain that summer, and indeed, Antonio could feel his sanity melting away and dripping out of every pore.

Midway through the afternoon meal, Mr. Caraway met Antonio’s eyes.                   “Son, I have an important job for you.” Antonio rolled the handle of his knife between his thumb and middle finger and waited. “There’s a horse needs to be taken care of.” Antonio ran his finger along the blade of the knife. It felt smooth and familiar to his touch. His pulse quicked.

The lame stallion’s flesh burned under Antonio’s palms and he gnashed his teeth at Antonio’s touch. When the blood hit Antonio’s skin it was as hot as hellfire.

That night, he lay in bed praying for a cool breeze to lift the blanket of dank air that surrounded him. Instead, he was blessed with a buzzing in his left ear. He waved wildly above his head for a few moments, then let his hand sink back to its former resting place.

He was just on the edge of sleep when the mosquito returned. The droning of its wings tickled his eardrum, and he sat up in a rage. He jabbed at the light switch with his thick index finger, and swiveled his head back and forth, searching for the winged pest. When he saw it from the corner of his eye, he snatched at it, but the mosquito danced gracefully away from his blow.

Sweat dripped down Antonio’s forehead, into his eyes. He darted back and forth, chasing the insect until he was out of breath. Finally, just when he’d given up, it flew right between his slab-like hands, and he brought them together with a meaty smack. Somewhere in the distance a dog began to bark. Antonio waited a few moments to pull his hands apart, savoring the conquest. When he did, the mosquito was nothing but a stain of red and a smear of black on his right hand.

The thrill of victory made his heart race. He was no longer tired, so he decided to walk to the sea where he prayed it would be somewhat cooler. It was ten minutes past midnight, and the asphalt was still so hot that it stuck like taffy to the bottom of his shoes.

He was nearing the end of 5^th, and he could smell the salt and seaweed on the air. Up ahead, the dark mass of a man walked towards him. He continued to move at a steady pace, but his heart danced a tarantella against his ribs. As he neared the figure, he saw that it was not just a man; There was a woman with him. They were laughing to themselves, and hardly noticed Antonio until he was upon them.

Once he’d dealt with the man, the woman was easy. Just a quick blow to the head, and she was done. When he’d finished with the bodies, he continued on his journey, removing his clothes as he walked. He swam until he was tired, and emerged from the waves feeling quite refreshed.

Loss

Before there was loneliness, there was love.
And before there was love, there was nothing.
And nothing was easier to bear.
A woman’s world is full of loss.
I am Tess of the D’Urbervilles.
I am Jane Eyre.

Courage

It is a true believer
That would die to defend his faith
It is a true lover
That would suffer for his beloved’s sake
It is a true patriot
That would fight for his nation’s ways
It is a true man
That always is afraid

Unity Through Tragedy

I was eleven when the unthinkable happened. With the speed and intensity of an earthquake, two great buildings collapsed into dust. That day the school bell rang, like it always did, to signal the start of the day. My classmates and I entered the school and sat down for class. It was simply a sunny September morning in New Jersey. Outside the building, the American flag hung motionless in the still air. There was no warning, no indication of the tragedy that was about to occur seventeen miles away. We went about our day in the usual way until around eleven in the morning. Then students started to disappear. One by one, my friends were called out of class. At recess, we could see clouds of smoke streaming across the sky from our lookout on the playground. “What happened?” We asked our teachers but what it was they wouldn’t say. A rumor rippled through us: Two planes had crashed into the Twin Towers. I wasn’t alarmed – it couldn’t be true. When my mom told me this had indeed happened, I wasn’t impressed and felt bad about my lack of sympathy. I felt as though I should, at the very least, feel a sense of loss. I didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t concrete enough yet. Maybe I was too young or too self-centered. Whatever the reason, I was unaffected. I cried a little bit. Said a few prayers around the flagpole with my classmates but life moved on, so I did too.
In the days, weeks and months that followed, Americans united under their shared sorrow which waved like a banner in the wind. Everywhere there was good will and kindliness – like constant Christmas – but I felt like I was watching the action from the sidelines. All of America held hands in a ring, and I stood on the outside, distanced from the emotion.
Volunteers sifted through the remains looking for bodies; perhaps they were also looking for answers. On September 14, 2001, three days after the dust settled they unearthed a tattered American flag from the rubble, worn but still intact like America’s morale. The flag was everywhere that year. Dollar stores sold them by the thousands, millions. Red, white, and blue became the new black.
About six months later, I visited the city with my family. On our way to the South Street Seaport we stopped at Ground Zero. I stared through the gaps in the chain link fence at the rubble. A quiet commotion surrounded the place as workers solemnly moved concrete and steel. We went to the memorial in Trinity Church. My sisters and I were absolutely bored. Why should we look at artifacts or pictures and force ourselves to feel an unnatural sense of loss?
That was also the year of “In God we trust.” Soon crosses graced store windows, guarded churches, grazed collarbones. Tearstained flowers sat illuminated by the flickering light of memorial candles. Everyone I knew started going back to church, praying and wishing God’s blessings upon their family and country. My step-father was thrilled. Finally our harlot America was coming to its senses. She had been unfaithful to Jesus and this was his way of bringing her back to him. In all honesty, it didn’t matter whether you were a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew, a Buddhist or a Hindu. Tragedy has a way of bringing people together like good times never could.

*

Seven years later, I was eighteen and living on 34th street in Midtown. I attended The King’s College, a small liberal arts school in the basement of the Empire State Building. As part of the freshman curriculum, I was required to take a class called Intro to the City. On the anniversary of 9/11, we watched news footage detailing the events that had occurred seven years earlier. “You can leave if you don’t feel comfortable or if it becomes too much to handle.” our professor told us, but I stayed. As the towers crumpled on the screen the images bridged seventeen miles of inexperience. New York was no longer the city; it was now my city. Those were my neighbors running from the dust and debris, my coworkers evacuating lower Manhattan, my police officers and firefighters and volunteers risking their lives to save strangers. My eyes filled with tears. I looked around the room and all twenty of us shared the same expression: sorrow and great pain mixed with hope and the peace. New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Texas, Florida, Indiana or Ohio in that moment we all shared the same burden.
I declined to attend the memorial service. My roommate said it was beautiful. I’m sure it was but I just couldn’t handle the emotional trauma. Crying with the entire city just felt fake to me. I needed something real, something personal to feel as though I was truly honoring those who had died.

*

Yesterday my boyfriend and I drove out 80 West in his convertible with the top down. It was a beautiful afternoon- warm and sunny only a few clouds in the sky. We approached an overpass where emergency vehicles sat lights flashing. We looked at each other, confused. A few miles down the road we confronted the same scenario. A fireman on a lift held an American flag and suddenly it dawned on him. “It’s 9/11.” I hadn’t watched a raging battle all night in the rain, no bombs exploded over my head, but in that moment I feel the emotional weight that Francis Scott Key must have felt writing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Minutes later a cop drove by on the East side followed by a stream of bikers waving flags. Bike after bike the line continued until four miles down the road we passed the last cop. I felt the heat on my face, the wind in my hair, my boyfriend’s hand in mine – nine years and fifty miles ago we could have been the couple jumping from the burning building.

*

O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

a faulty grip

Are you happy down there pulling on my heartstrings?
you, whom I’ve loved so long, so well.
I could just forfeit this tug-o-war,
drop the rope and watch you fall.
But I’ve never been good at letting go
because I hate to live with the unknown.

Ode to Joy Indescribable

Miss Lena was whirling patchwork skirts and a mess of curly hair. She stood by the piano and raised her hands.
“Boys and girls, it’s time to worship. Let’s praise our God!” She played out a few chords and began to sing.
“Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable.” Her voice was commanding and powerful and it was evident that she truly wished to be filled. Her eyes stayed closed as her fingers lingered over the keys and she turned her face up to heaven. A gaggle of boys behind me sniggered. What if they were laughing at me? Were my pants too tight? Was my hair a mess? Stop focusing on yourself and pay attention! I rebuked my pride. Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable. I closed my eyes and let the music blow across my face like a cool wind. The girl beside me began to sing out, tentative at first then brave. Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable. I began to mouth, then sing, the words, and my heart filled with the same joy indescribable that was on my lips. One by one, fifty voices spread their wings and soared behind us. Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable. Our intonations roamed around the edges of the room. Someone behind me cried out.
“Thank you Jesus for your great mercy!” Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable. Miss Lena lead, and we flew in formation towards greater understanding. I felt myself drawing closer to a beautiful epiphany. Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable. Our voices took on an air of determined urgency. We were moving faster now. Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable. Children began to dance, lift their hands. One girl even dropped to her knees and laid her face on the ground. Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable. I was at the brink, when Miss Lena stopped playing and thrust up her hands.
“One last time.” she whispered. I looked down on the world from high above. Then, as one, fifty birds spiraled down like a legion of angels. When the last echoes faded, we looked at each other, exhausted. Spirit fill me up with joy indescribable.

Roadkill

This will go down as the summer of roadkill
Wide eyed deer sleep on the side of the lane

What’s black and white and red all over?
A dead skunk of course!
Bloody puddles with striped tails still twitching

What good is a beautiful house
when all your friends are on crack
and nothing will put an end to this mess?
and you wish you could bear
the weight of the world
but you’re only a man.

Oh west-bound bus
you drag my heart under your wheels
as you drive into the sunset.

The Philosophy of Love

It was a stereotypical classroom scene with stock students, shuffling papers, muted conversation, squeaking chairs. It was her hair that caught my attention- glossy auburn and cascading over her shoulders. Law major, I assumed, regarding her presence in Advanced Philosophy. She was too beautiful to be a Psychology major which appealed mainly to grey, shapless women and I couldn’t imagine her as a Philosophy major which was the specialty of the hornrimmed, hunchback recluse. I was right, but I was wrong. When it came time to introduce herself she smiled. She was majoring in Political Science, she said; She wanted to be a Journalist, make a difference, change the world. It was love at first sight. I was an avid believer in democracy and liberty, and a passionate activist for social freedom. My hard cut political beliefs and my love of sobriety distanced me from my indifferent peers from an early age. Twenty-seven years and both my dignity and my virginity remained intact. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had opportunity but I was waiting for the right girl. Her name, she said, was Janelle Roberts. She was beautiful, intelligent and completely out of my league. I sighed and moved on. Action! “Let us begin,” I said, “by discussing morality. What is it? Where does it come from?” As I regarded the class I rocked back and forth from my soles to my heels. No one answered. Someone coughed. As I opened my mouth, frozen in the spotlight, she came in with the saving lines:

“Morality is a set of beliefs that guides a person’s actions.” I smiled.

“Yes, I said, anyone else care to elaborate?” No one did. “Where does morality come from?” I asked. When no one else answered I looked to her

“Morality comes from God.” she answered smoothly. My smile died. And here I’d thought she was more than just a pretty face. It was such a shame.

“Well Miss Roberts, what if one does not believe in God?”

“Then he is a fool.” It was a cruel blow. Half an hour and I was already tangled in her red web. I did not take kindly to the realization.

“Is that so?” I asked sarcastically, “and how do you know that you are not the fool?” The rest of the students began to look interested. She just looked bored.

“Would you like me to present a syllogism proving that there is indeed a god Professor Trace?” She was taking a huge risk to save her ego. If it was the lead she wanted she could have it.”

“By all means. Come up to the board and try.” I stood back hands on my hips and watched. She wrote:

All [that which is physical] is [that which is breaking down]

No [that which is breaking down] is [that which is eternal]

Therefore: No [that which is physical] is [that which is eternal]

No [that which is physical] is [that which is eternal]

All [I] is [that which is physical]

Therefore: No [I] is [That which is eternal]

If I exist then I am created. If I always existed then I am eternal

No [I] is [that which is eternal]

All [that which is eternal] is [God]

Therefore: No [I] is [God]

I was both awed and humiliated. “I disagree with your premises, I said, but this is absolutely excellent work. Well done.” Some of the students smirked. Some laughed. Some sat staring with their mouths open. She didn’t smile or blush, just returned to her seat and picked up her pen. I continued with the rest of my lesson. I tried to push all thoughts of her out of my mind. She is a student and it would be improper, I reminded myself, but for the first time in my life impropriety seemed a tempting option.

*

Every day she tortured me much in the same manner. She was beautiful, no doubt, but her beauty was secondary to her passion and her strong commitment to logic. I wanted her terribly but I couldn’t bring myself to breach good conduct. Imagine what ruin would come to my reputation should I take up with a student in my first semester of teaching. I was terribly distraught. It wasn’t as though I could escape her. I saw her three times a week from two in the afternoon until four in the evening and sometimes she would stay later. Those were my best hours. The other students were content to occupy themselves while she and I parried over religion, politics, ethics. To say I’d never felt this way would be facetious – I’d found myself pining after a beautiful girl once or twice before – but I’d never found someone with whom I could be intellectually intimate. I told myself to stop before she broke my heart but I could tell she felt it too. Every cue I gave she answered promptly. Every line rang out true and right on time. The leaves fell away and were covered by snow. As the days grew shorter so did my restraint. Finally the semester ended and we were left with an empty classroom littered with broken pencils and scraps of paper. As usual she was the last to leave. I took my time packing up my things dreading her exit. “Any plans for Christmas break?” I asked her when I couldn’t stand it any longer. Her eyes met mine.

“Nothing pressing.” she replied nonchalant. “Is that an invitation?” She laughed at the look on my face. “Did you have other plans?”

“Not at all” I answered quickly. “I just…” She stood and walked over to my desk. She was wearing a sky blue sweater that set off her hair.

“You just what?” she said softly, coming even closer. I couldn’t answer. My mind was so filled with her that I had no room to think of a witty reply.

“Janelle.” It came out as a whisper. Still looking into my eyes she reached her hand up to my face. I pulled her in and kissed her deeply. Everything I’d been planning to say I told her with my tongue and teeth and hands instead. Every fantasy I’d had of taking her right there on my desk was fulfilled. It was a fitting beginning to our physical relationship. After, I held her close and kissed her hair. There was nothing left unsaid between us, only a mutual understanding of the things neither of us had spoken. “You’re beautiful.” I told her. She rolled her eyes. Save it Romeo. I’m not going to look so beautiful if I starve to death. Let’s go. I held the door for her as we walked out leaving all hesitations behind.

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