Eyes Open Wider
She couldn’t close her eyes.
She couldn’t even squint or turn away.
What she’d seen could never be unseen.
What she now knew, she’d have to embrace.
As deep as she dug to remove the memory.
As deep as she clawed and scratched at its face.
She couldn’t stop her eyes from opening wider.
She couldn’t forget the day he violated her space.
Everlasting Lovestopper
Never dissolving, ever-evolving. This is our love.
Like a round, sweet-sour candy in my mouth that I pass to you during a kiss, only for you to pass back to me, in our next lip-lock revelation. An organic pattern, an agreed upon system, a joy never-ending. This is our love.
Tangy and colorful, smooth outer-coating hiding the grainy, mouthwatering goodness beneath. The taste reminding us of summer and childhood and freedom. Leaving a sugary-layer on our teeth and tongues. This is our love.
Long-lasting. Everlasting. A cyclical rhythm of pulsing mastication. Reverberating through every memory of flavor we can gather. Triggering my salivary, salvationary glands. Wet and bold. Hard and light. This is our love.
No melting. No dissipating. Nearing forever.
Out of the box and into our mouths.
This is our love.
WWIT x 3
What was it about me that drove you away?
Would you ever give me a second chance?
It might work out, if I tried harder.
Take me back, please.
——
What were you thinking?
Would anyone do that?
It never crossed my mind.
Take a chill pill and move on.
——
What could we be someday?
Would our love be for life?
It’s worth a go, a try.
Take a chance on our love.
I Am Not a Priest.
As I sit down, the person on the other side of the gray mesh coughs softly. Before I can begin confessing my sins, he begins with his own sort of confession.
“I am not a priest,” the voice says. “I am actor Anthony Hopkins.”
“Nice to meet you, Sir Anthony Hopkins,” I reply. “But where is Father Martin, might I ask?”
“Hmm. Would you laugh if I said stewing in a pot of fava beans, next to a nicely chilled Chianti?”
I giggle—my only response.
“Though not actually a priest, I would most assuredly still like to hear your confession.” He clears his throat. “If that’s alright by you.”
Although it may not result in absolution, I think I might enjoy giving confession to Hannibal Lector. “Yes, that would be quite nice.”
“Where do we begin?” He sounds sincere and focused.
I begin to pour out my sins. One by one they flow through the thin, opaque barrier between us.
“Forgive me, Fath—Sir Anthony, it has been a week since my last confession. In this time, I’ve pleasured myself twice, lied to my saint-of-a-mother once, and killed a handsy suitor.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. In truth and sooth.”
“What do I say? To that?” Sir Anthony’s voice is hesitant, somewhat muffled. It might be that his hand is covering his mouth.
“You ask that I do three Hail Marys, four Our Fathers, and promise to do better in the future.”
“That’s all. I don’t, at least, ask about the poor boy you murdered or get detailed accounts of the other lesser sins?” Mr. Hopkins seems a bit baffled.
“Nope. What I say to you is protected and must be shared of my volition. Now you pray for my soul and it’s on to the next confessor.”
“This is not, at all, what I expected.”
“Anthony—if I may address you as such—always expect the unexpected. Now I’m off, a busy week of grave sins to be accomplished.”
“But—“
I didn’t wait to hear his rebuttal or further questions. As I’d said, there were deeds to be done in preparation for next week’s confession. Maybe Father Martin will be back by then.
* This was penned for a challenge about the weirdest thing to hear a priest say during confession. But ended up being longer than the 100 word maximum count for submission. So, I’ll just post it here. :-)
Quiet Stream
To the river, to the stream, to the flow of imagination—this is where I go when the world quiets and I find myself all alone.
Hummingbirds flit by, monsters dip a toe in chilly waters, I dance with ancestors long gone yet so near, listening to heartbeats in the far off distance.
No pretense or presumptions reside in this forest, just the stream of my consciousness, the muse, and an utter lack of feral fear and trepidation.
Paintbrushes dabble of their own accord, dapple grey mares morph into seahorse revelations, numbers can speak—telling wild, numeric stories.
The best is when there’s paper and pen or a laptop or smartphone near by—these are the times when I capture my moment lost in the quiet stream.
The Hatchling
Gestating for hours, weeks, months,
inside the vessel of my imagination,
the cells and molecules connect,
coming together to form you.
When the timing is right,
a crack appears in the egg’s wall,
without fanfare or prelude
you emerge—formed but wobbly.
Your first steps are taken,
on the cocoons that fostered
your birth and creation—
words walking on eggshells.
Over the next few days, weeks, months,
you grow stronger, stabilizing
and coming into your own,
formed and ready for readers.
Then I release you, fully feathered,
to be who you were meant
to be, sharing your message,
whole and essentially complete.
I will miss your days of formation
and emergence, but I have
no doubt, a yolk of a sibling
is in a shell, not far behind.
Verging on Delirious
Why so serious,
the nurse asks,
you’re verging on delirious.
Your symptoms are curious,
the doctor says,
why aren’t you furious?
The signs so various,
the therapist quips,
damned nearly nefarious.
All the while—
I sit there smiling,
hiding my cards,
watching the diagnoses piling,
knowing that my game
has completely f-ed up their precious,
red-tape filing.
Mama, I Know
What follows is the final conversation between a man on death row and his mother.
Satchel Lewis Harrison: Mama, I know I done messed up. I know I let ya’ down.
Martha Ann Harrison: Boy, I done told you time and time again that you ain’t to go on the other side of them tracks. What was you thinkin’?
SLH: I dunno. Curiosity, I guess.
MAH: Well, in this case, curiosity ain’t killed no cat. It done gone and killed my only boy. My only baby boy.
SLH: I ain’t dead yet, Mama.
MAH: You all but are, Satch. Got mere minutes until they flip that switch and a jolt takes your breath away.
SLH: Miracles happen.
MAH: Nah. Not for people like us. Not for negros in this part of the world, in this day and age. Not for me and not for you.
SLH: I’m scared, Ma. What’s gonna happen?
MAH: I don’t know, son. I imagine it’s different for each of us. Don’t you cry. You hear.
SLH: Will ya’ sing to me? One last song.
MAH: Which one you wanna have me do?
SLH: One of them church songs you used to sing when I was little.
MAH: Alright. You close them big, brown eyes, lay your head back—best you can—and listen to your mama.
SLH: Yes, ma’am.
MAH: I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses and the voice I hear callin’ on my ear, the son of God discloses...
Warden in Charge of Executions: Today, Samuel Lewis Harrison joins his father, John Lewis Harrison, and mother, Martha Ann Harrison, on the other side of life. May the fires of Hell purify the vileness of all their ignorant, negro souls.
(Thank goodness, we’ve changed.)