First, After
She checked the time.
Checked her phone.
Checked the door.
Checked her reflection.
He’s not late.
He’s not late.
He’s not—
coming?
Stop.
That’s not fair.
Be fair.
You said you'd try.
He wanted sushi.
You picked Italian.
Like the rehearsal night—
the last thing he ate.
It’s not a test.
It’s not betrayal.
It’s just dinner.
Just—
She touched the napkin.
Her ring finger twitched.
Don’t think of rings.
Don’t think of ash.
He said we could wait.
He said stay home.
He said not today.
She said
Hawaii.
No weather warnings.
No second thoughts.
No life vests.
No—
wedding.
The wine list blurred.
Waves on white paper.
She didn’t drink anymore.
She did.
After.
What if he’s kind?
What if he’s dull?
What if he dies too—
and it’s her fault
again?
She practiced hello.
Practiced her laugh.
Practiced surviving.
Didn’t
practice this.
She almost left.
She almost stayed.
She almost
believed.
He’s late.
He’s not late.
He’s not—
Hi.
Sorry—traffic.
She blinked.
Breathed.
Smiled.
It’s okay.
I just got here.
A Pint Topside
"It's not a uniquely human condition."
Two men sit on the same side of a booth in a busy pub. If anyone cared, some would wonder if they were lovers.
The man who speaks wears no parka, despite freezing weather. He's in an immaculate bespoke suit. It almost swallows light, so dark is the black on black. He is regally pale in contrast, as if the warmth of the sun is a tale whispered by fairies.
His companion, leaning as far onto the wall as he can, is ruddy with drink. Even so, he is aware, sharp, focused.
Afraid.
"Come again?" he stammers.
The elegant man smiles like a rattlesnake.
"Hope. Hope is not a uniquely human condition."
"How so?"
"Take dogs, for example. You think it's love in their eyes when they stare at the dinner table? No. It's optimism. Begging for whatever scraps master will throw them."
"I see."
"Do you see you're the dog?"
"Who is the master?"
"Whom do you serve?"
"...I work at Sainsbury's, mate."
The man in the suit laughs, and the temperature in the pub drops. Winter's chill settles into the warm public house.
"Did you study Latin in school?"
"I remember a class, but nothing stuck."
The pale man calls for another round.
"Dum spiro spero." Two pints of Kronenbourg land on the table and the server quickly disappears. He's careful not to touch the man on the outside of the booth's seat, but he can't say why. "While I breathe, I hope."
"I like that."
"Breathing, or hoping?"
"Both."
"Abandon one, and you'll abandon the other."
The fearful man doesn't know what to say, so he drinks.
"Do you know why I order ale when I take these little walks topside?"
"Topside?"
"Among you mud-fucking monkeys. His favorite pets. His dogs. Only, your dogs are actually dogs, so I think you have the better of it."
"Mate, I'm just trying to have a pint. Never owned a dog, nor fucked a monkey."
The pale man laughs again; mugs on the table frost over.
"I like you, Oliver."
"Ollie. Dad was Oliver."
"Oh, I know him."
"Knew him?"
"Know."
"He was a right cunt."
"Is."
"What're you on about, anyway?"
The suited man swirls a delicate index finger in his pint. "I order ale because He made wine." Bright yellow lager turns into black stout.
The drunk doesn't believe his eyes, so he shuts them.
"Spirans erit cupidum memoria, Ollie."
"Cupid's memory?"
"What would you give to keep breathing? To prevent breath from being a fond memory?"
For the first time, Ollie looks into his guest's eyes. He sees a beautiful creature who looks like a man, but doesn't know beauty. True fear is lead inside him; even beatings taken as a child from Oliver the elder didn't weigh like this moment.
"Mate," he whispers, voice tight and chest hollow, "not much. To you? Nothing."
"Do you know who I am?"
"I can guess your name."
The devil laughs and everyone shivers.
Every Storm Runs Out of Rain
Last night I dreamed you were there. I was 18 years old again in dirty work pants. You pulled up in your old red Civic, walked out with that smile of pride on your face. And I thought, “What is there to be proud of, Nan? I’m as lost as can be. Doing work anyone could do.” But your smile remained, even seemed to grow wider.
We walked through the garden centre. The smell of petunias, geraniums, lavender, bleeding heart, all mixing into a sweet aroma. You closed your eyes and took it all in. You were in the moment, while I was somewhere else. Lamenting about the past, or fearing for the future. But you were right there, in it. Appreciating it. Appreciating each breath and the chance to talk about flowers with your grandson.
You said, “Do you know your flowers yet?”
“Not really,” I answered. And you lightly tapped me on my forearms and called me a little turkey, like you always did.
You told me about perennials and annuals and which flowers need more water than others. You told me that I had the best job in the world, and you’d love to work here. It would be your dream job.
“You can have it.” I said, and smiled. You smiled too.
We walked through the greenhouse, touching and smelling the flowers. You telling me stories about them. About how grandpa took you to a dance when you were young, and he placed a petunia above your left ear. A simple gesture, but you kept that flower and framed it, and it still hangs next to a framed picture of Jesus in your bedroom. You kneel down and pray before bed, and look at Jesus, and the flower. And it reminds you of how lucky you are.
In the dream I didn’t say I had to get back to work. I just said, “Keep going, Nan. I want to hear all about it.”
In my dream, a soft rain falls and the raindrops hit off the greenhouse but we’re safe and I have nowhere else to go. You have nowhere else to be. We have all the time in the world.
The rain falls, but then it begins to fall harder. It reaches a point where it drowns you out, Nan. I can’t hear you.
But you just smile. You gently rub my face and a tear falls. I’m reaching the point of a dream where I know it’s a dream.
“I miss you,” I say.
“I miss you, too.” She answers.
Outside the greenhouse, I can see the sun.
You tell me I have to go.
“Remember every storm runs out of rain.” You say.
I open my eyes and I’m lying in bed. You’re gone, and the storm is still relentless.
My Friend
on days when I think
the cupboard bare...
and find dirth of
staples there
not a grain
of rice
nor
a shred
of tea
I remember
my friend's
dearth advice
to always
look twice
And I wonder
to check deeper
into the cabinet
all the way in back
behind the pickled
herring can...
which lost
its tab
Groping in that
dust filled empty
I have to crackle
as I recall my
friend Spam
and the misplaced
bottle opener
She sends me
in email a joke
each day
and a recipe
from a website
called Holy Food...
I've won a prize too!
I find this all
in the folder
named in her
honor...
Thank you Spam.
04.02.2025
One man's trash challenge @Mariah
CORVUS
BANG!
Shots fired.
Screams heard— ‘A-HA!’-
Sirens ringing in distance.
Blood splattered across the floor.
Dogs across the neighborhood all BARK~
The officers zip past many red lights.
BOOM—goes the dynamite- & the front door.
The helicopter, now, tries to catch someone running away.
Somebody keeps running until they end up in a crowd.
The officers lose track of the stranger and put out an APB.
#CORVUS.
(#HappyPoetryDay.)
All Rights Reserved.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=II4sfbrsdn4
The Border of Numbness
Today, I fought imaginary battles, against made-up opponents, in fictional places in a present reality that isn't ours.
I can feel myself getting fed up. I can sense myself wanting to fade back and let things fall silent in my mind.
I don't want to leave this place. But all this noise is just too much right now.
Like a factory on the brink of explosion, I shut down before I overload.
And for a brief period for the sake of deep rest, I go numb.
It's a learned behavior.
An adaptive trait or failsafe my mind built to protect me from myself.
I often let too much in.
I try to carry too much at once, and worst of all, I try to prepare for things I may never carry.
I suffer from giving a damn.