Secondhand Hope

I Gather Love Returns

I can’t say I remember you well. You were always distant to me like the October moon. But you were beautiful too. There are snatches and fragments of you that will always belong to me. The breeze smelling of salt spray and crab. Your smile that crooked up on the right, a little smirk. I have your essence. It follows with me, distantly and long held out. But your soul, your body; they are else where.

Jenica, you were ethereal. Your laughter flew on the sparrow’s wings. I can recall your eyes, darting hazel beauties framed by long golden brown lashes full of life and passion. I chased after you. I was captivated striving for what I could not have. You encouraged the chase but on you flew. A bluebird flying its way over the world while the watcher pursues and always fails to catch paradise.

Were you my paradise, Jenica? I will never know. I never had you. How can we discern paradise if we have not tasted its sweetness? I float in my incandescent reality. I dream, but the dreams are black and white. They leave an ashy taste in my mouth.

Today I sat on the dunes in this September cool and watched the sun sidle up over the horizon. I wonder how that moment would have been different if you were sitting next to me. One presence can change the limitlessly woven threads of any second. What would your presence have done for that moment of sand, reeds and a crimson to rose to valencia sunrise? A tricolored glory. 

They tell me to move forth and on from my past. “Seek a new silent beauty. There are plenty out there,” they chime. But this they is just a shard. So I disregard their words. I gather love returns. I’m not sure of the how, but I know it does. 

When you lose love, Jenica, where does it go before it returns? Are you wherever the lost love went or did you part ways with it too? I say love is infinite. We always find a way back to it even if it is through a new vessel.

Jenica, your essence fades. The small memories wane. Your beauty is dying out in my mind’s eye. Laugh sweetly, Jenica and may love always return no matter how often we lose it.

When the Dark Sets In

1:13 AM

The dark has set into the city streets. A girl walks in a short dress and heels too high for her through the alleyways of the city. Lamplight sets her aglow. She seems to be headed for nowhere in particular. Maybe she had been at a party. Maybe she is going to one now. It is up to her to find her destination.

1:42 AM

The girl is in a greasy diner now. She sits alone at a booth. She holds a dying cigarette in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. There are red lipstick stains on the ceramic cup.

2:03 AM

The girl leaves the diner. She begins walking slowly down the street. Suddenly a street lamp bursts above her. She does not scream but she throws her shoes off and runs. Her heart races. Her feet pounds. Running is her only option. But what is she running from?

2:16 AM 

She has made it to the plaza where a fountain sends up sprays of water. She falls against the brick surrounding the water. She begins to cry. The darkness pulls closer around her. Her body shakes and shivers. Somewhere in the distance, a child screams. She hurries to the curb and takes the first cab home. 

Painting the Garden

You painted me into the garden. With the swirls of color roses burst from my chest where my heart beat irregularly. My legs rooted themselves into the ground and vines grew from my hands, verdant and curling long. And the air was sweet with the scent of petunias and tulips. The butterflies flew in spirals and landed upon me dancing over the petals that covered my cheeks. You splattered yourself with paint as you watched me bloom into full color. Lilies burst from my sides and ivy hung from my head in spirals. Bamboo shot up behind me inches every second. You worked faster and faster. Swirling and spinning your brush across the canvas. With every minute I disappeared into more and more flowers. Until soon the garden swallowed me whole. The roses, lilies and tulips was your love for me pulling me close.

For Lauren

You are the girl with the long elegant name. I looked you up in the dictionary just the other day. Anacoluthia is a seemingly chaotic phrase where there is lack of grammatical order. And sometimes poetry can feel that way when you let the words bleed from the gash in your ribs and the emotion comes spilling onto the page. You write just enough for me to want to wrap myself up in your words and search for my heart there in between the hope and pain. These are disorderly days. I know you’ve seen your fair share of darkness but I see a sky of starlight above me and I want to share it with you. Wake up to a full moon and bathe yourself in silver light. Forget the black stains of pain on the insides of your wrists. Let the heaviness in your heart float away. You are anacoluthia. A string of chaos that is only all the more beautiful for its disorder. 

The Laundry Department II

First Part

^ Read that first!

One could certainly say that this is not the usual profession. And that is true. I won’t try to counter that. Each of the employees has come here on their own terms, for their own reasons. I needed a job for a long time. At one point I was living off half a box of stale Cheerios and a gallon of Gatorade. Things got bad.

I was in an unemployment agency and a guy I’d never met before slipped a card into my hand. “You might have some luck here,” he said.

The card had an address and said laundry and cleaning services. Which seemed fine to me I needed a job. I found out when I first came to the warehouse that it wasn’t ordinary. They tell you up front that things are different. And you can’t just run off and report them. They always have something on you. Blackmail, I guess.

I arrived for my interview almost a year ago. I drove way out into the desert in my dusty blue Buick. The building was low and hulking, an old warehouse of some sort. At first when I got there, I said to myself, “Liza, what the hell are you doing?”

But what else was I supposed to do? I knew my choices. I knew my situation. When I got out of the car I was greeted by a skinny man probably in his thirties with crew cut black hair and tanned skin. 

“Liza,” he said. “I’m glad you came. Let’s go inside.”

He brought me in where the industrial washing machines were and large baskets of items to be washed were everywhere. He told me what went on here. My face paled. I was a little shocked.

“Now, now. Before you go running off we know a few things that might just persuade you to stay and work here. They are a little private though. Let’s go to my office.”

He led me to a supply closet with a cluttered desk.

“You have a brother don’t you?”

I looked up at him. I did. Jeremy. He was in prison. And it was my fault. I thought back to that night. The broken glass and cigarette smoke. The gunshots and the blood, the blood everywhere. Oh Jeremy what did I do?

“We know Liza. We know who was there with him. We know who really held that gun. Quite a sacrifice he made didn’t he to spare someone so young?”

“Don’t you! Don’t you dare! How could you know? No one knows!”

“Stay here, Liza. Take the job and no one else ever will.”

So I did.

Growing Wings

She is curled up in the chair, her body folded like a forgotten letter. In the darkness she clings to her legs hoping for solid ground. Beneath the black her body grows wings that only she can see and feel. She longs for escape. Her body is aching to walk to the edge and take flight. She has been caged up for far too long. Her mind weaves destiny out of lace threads in between her nimble fingertips. Her wings are wide and feathered with leftover hope. She will remake her future out of past tense mistakes. She is growing wings wide and beautiful. Someday she will take flight. She is bound to soar through the sky and sever the blue with her wings. In the future she will shatter impossibilities. All this and more is waiting for her just beyond the next tick of the minute hand.

Death waits now
Close your eyes sweet child
Sleep is soon