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THE ITCH
Published in Hobart
Fall has stripped its skirts and dropped them to the cold ground. Burnt leaves cradle the desperate toll of mour-ning and hush the rattling gates of my over worked mind. ‘Tis the witching hour, when carved out faces melt under the canopy of night and lost souls crawl up from mossy pits, scraping their bones against bones.
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I am reminded of a time when things were simpler. When children played with their friends unmasked and free. I am reminded that we once had faith that our leaders would lead or at least not lie with malice. I am reminded that “this too will change,” and that we will be OK. I am reminded that no matter how dark the night is, dawn will come.
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But when?
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Gamble.
So much this and that.
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We are only what? Final
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S C R A T C h
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Uneasy, I throw my pillow aside. It’s hot. Or maybe it’s just me. I never know anymore. Getting old is a bitch. Who said that? Someone famous, I think. Anyway, they weren’t kidding. I feel like I’m disintegrating. Who knew hormones would be the topic of my adult life? That I’d be reduced to dust before I’m 80. It’s a dirty secret to keep us chugging along, oblivious and fat and not interesting anymore.
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I sit up, sweat covering my chest. My lover sleeps beside me, one leg tucked around the folds of an old wool blanket, exposing his naked limbs. He looks sweet, like a little boy. Dreaming of soccer balls and red fire trucks. A feather from the pillow clings to his head. I touch his greying hair. We are a thousand couples. A million maybe.
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A truck rumbles down the road. The thud of a paper hits my lawn. A hint of pink light creeps up the wall from beneath the window shade. The promise of daylight. A newness born from the bosom of night’s watch. I stretch and yawn and pull the covers up to my chin. Soon things will need to be done. Another day. A reset.
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I make out a button on the bedside table, ready to be sewn onto some-thing. I forget what. I forget lots of things. I forget to be kind. I’m forgetting how to love. I am shrinking. Like my mom. I see myself in her eyes. Her ashen face. Her linen skin folded over too many times. She’s eighty-two. An old eighty-two. Somewhere she gave up. Maybe it’s the pandemic and being cut off from the world. Maybe it’s that everyone she knew as a kid has died. Or maybe she’s just bored.
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“This might be the last time we see each other,” she said. She held my car door open and looked at me with tear filled eyes. Knowing eyes. Sad eyes locked and loaded with a universe of truths. I drove away, watching her disappear in my rearview mirror. A memory already fading. I cried the four-hour ride home. I would not see my mother again in this lifetime. Or feel her soft cheeks against mine. Or know what it is to be safe again. Like when I was child, tucked in her pocket.
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CRACKED
Published in Amethyst Review
His sad face was like a bullet to my gut. I said it was over, not because he was a bad boyfriend. I just knew there was no future in it. I felt it in my bones. But bones can lie and so can the mouth.
I stopped eating. I didn’t go out. I found it hard to work. My friend Lisa thought it was a curse. Or some past life karma thing. She said she knew a guy. He was from South America. A shaman. He could help. I’d just have to bring an egg.
Finding the place wasn’t easy. There weren’t any signs saying CURSES REMOVED HERE or GET SAVED ON SUNSET. Just cross-streets in Echo Park, and a description: Blue awning. Next to a diner. Glass storefront. People waiting with eggs. Maybe a chicken.
I sat in an open waiting room with a dozen or so people, mostly Hispanic, and all quiet. It was a little unsettling. Stoic faces that gave away nothing.
The man across from me had an open carton of eggs in his oil stained lap. The woman next to him had a basket full of white and brown eggs that she balanced with one arm, a child in another. I pulled my single pasteurized egg close to my chest, feeling insecure and out of my depth.
I looked at my number: 83. It was only 9:15 in the morning and there’d already been 82 tickets issued. Incredible, I thought. Someone nearby was definitely making a killing on egg sales.
“NUMBER 83” said a stout woman in a nurse’s uniform. I jumped up. Winner, winner. My heart pumped red fire. I was all in.
I followed the nurse lady through a string of plastic beads, past storage boxes and shelves full of glass candle holders painted with pictures of saints and the Virgin Mary.
She led me to a dimly lit room with a small altar and a chair and told me to sit. Above me was a large painting of Jesus. He was crowned with thorns that dripped with blood. The frame was decorated with colored lights and a pink rose. I could hear the bustle of the diner next door. It smelled like onions.
A man walked out of the shadows. He was tall and wore a white robe with a blue vestment like a priest. His green eyes glowed in the darkness. “Welcome, “ he said. His brown-leathered skin creased deeper into his already lined face as he smiled. “Did you bring an egg?”
“Yes,” I said, humbled and small in my plastic chair. I handed him my ward.
He placed it on a purple velvet pillow on the altar, next to a gold coin, a white bowl and a glass of water. He looked up to the heavens and said “Oh Father, bless this child,” then mumbled words in a mix of languages. I could feel Jesus looking down on me, suspicious. Did he know I was an atheist? Would he call me out?
The Eggman flicked water onto the altar then cracked the egg into the white bowl. I held my breath and leaned over the bowl. Yellow yolk floated in the bottom. I was confused. It looked like every other cracked egg I’d ever seen. Was this my karma? Was this a curse? Did I buy the wrong egg?
The Eggman looked at me with his glowing green eyes and said, “What you suffer from, is a broken heart.”
I nodded. Thanked him. Paid $10 to the nurse. Walked past number 84 with his carton of eggs, past a woman holding a chicken and out onto Sunset Blvd.
And then, for the first time in weeks, I cried.
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ABSOLUTION
Published in the Phoenix
We’d fought before, but not like this. He said he’d get the first flight out in the morning. And he meant it. He was going home to New York to pack up and move out. And I’d be stuck in Rome with only a handful of cash and a return ticket I couldn’t afford to change.
He stood in front of the open window of the tiny hotel room that we found last minute. It was a Sunday night, and the streets were empty. It was a day of prayer to honor Saint Someone of Somewhere. We were lucky to find a bed.
“I can’t stand looking at you anymore,” he said, as he stared out into the street. He looked small in the frame of the old bay window, dwarfed by the thick plaster walls and ceiling-high lace curtains. He held the brass room key in his right hand, savoring his control. The numbers were etched in bold cursive. Two One Two. I wondered what it would be like for someone to fall from Room Two One Two. Would it be enough to kill a person? Or just break them open, bloody parts spread out all over the cobblestones below?
A church bell rang in the distance. One ring, then another and another. The sound echoed down the streets and into the room. They were deliberate, soothing, almost holy—though I didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But I was in the land of holy. The land of absolution. Was it strong enough to save a sinner like me?
Marcos pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He lit one up and took a drag, then pulled a few strands of tobacco from his lips, flicking them out the window. His long brown hair was pushed back behind his ears. I could make out his carved face in the dim light of the bedside lamp. Why’d he have to be so goddamn handsome, I thought.
“I’m going out to find some food,” I said. I got up from the bed and smoothed out the yellow woven quilt that some grandmother had spent time loving and making with ancient hands. I reached for my bag. Inside was some cash, my passport, a small tin of Carmex, and a bone-handled paring knife I’d picked up at a market in Palermo.
Marcos tossed his cigarette out into the street, not caring who or what it hit. “I’ll go with you,” he said. He grabbed his jacket and walked past me, unlocking the door. He turned to look at me. His face looked lighter. Was that a smile? A smile from the man who couldn’t bear to look at me?
Then it hit me. He was never going to leave me.
I stood frozen. My cannon feet stuck to the carpet. The stale smell of the hallway and the snapshot of my life made my stomach turn.
I thought about the cash I had left. Would it get me out of the city? Probably not. Maybe I could trade the knife. It was so beautifully crafted. It was going to be perfect for slicing tomatoes or peeling off the delicate skin of a grape. Or cutting into a rare piece of lamb, cutting the soft flesh away from the bone...
“You coming?” he said.
I nodded. Slung the bag over my shoulder and walked out the door, tugging Marcos by an invisible leash.
