Triolets

Do you know why
the patches are hummingbird colors?
Pulses like wings race with lies.
Do you know why
the thread tastes like salt and sighs?
Forgiveness doesn't glower.
Do you know why
the patches are hummingbird colors?

Her sneakers squeak
on purple checkerboard floors
while the music swirls and makes a paint leak.
Her sneakers squeak
and tweak
onlookers attitudes from snores.
Her sneakers squeak
on purple checkerboard floors.

It's the end of the day
you remember. The thoughts that slide you into sleep
fire the clay.
It's the end of the day
or the last words you say
that let your memory laugh or weep.
It's the end of the day.
You remember the thoughts that slide you into sleep.

Are her pants too tight?
Her neckline droops so low,
that you're allowed to touch her, right?
Are her pants too tight?
So if she tries to fight,
she should be shot like a doe.
Are her pants too tight?
Her neckline droops too low.

Haikus

Snow on a Friday
is like antibodies
after I am dead.

When shadows are the
sky, it needs to cry, and we
do if it doesn't.

If bricks erode with
droplets, than what can we do
with our mixed voices?

Cemented chalk-dust
licks my throat, and I reach for
flowing glass to drink.

My sunshine kiss was
meant for you, and two more and
all that I could give.

“Miss, where do you want these groceries?”
“Um, in the kitchen. On the counter, but not next to the sink. I don’t want them to get wet,” Panphila subconsciously patted down the imaginary creases in her skirt, then stopped, brushing back her hair and calling out to the ShopRite delivery boy. “Wait! Let me show you the spot.”
She wedged herself between the boy and the kitchen doorway, pointing a manicured talon at the counter.
“There,” she said. “Right there. On that counter.”
“Okay,” the delivery boy said, trying not to sound as annoyed as he was. He put the grocery bags down on that counter, and flexed his reddened fingers in relief. Panphila’s kitchen was white and gray, in no varying shades. The counters were white marble, polished to a shine, the oven, sink and refrigerator metallic, the walls a stainless white, and the blinds white and dustless. Everything looked as if it belonged on display in Home Depot, except without the smell of of wet paint and wood shavings.
“Is that everything?” Panphila asked, while she slinked around the boy and began poking through the bags.
“Everything you ordered. That’s it,” the boy said.
“Okay,” Panphila responded, her long, beaked nose not leaving the insides of the bags. “Thank you. Goodbye.”
“Uh, okay,” the boy said, and stepped quietly out of the kitchen.

*

An hour later, Panphila sat in her living room, reading a collection of poetry by Emily Dickinson. It was not - however - a copy of Dickinson’s original works, but the edited versions of her poetry done by her family after she’d died. The groceries were all properly put away, however Panphila had nearly thrown a fit when one of her eggs was cracked and she had to throw it in her compost bin. She hated starting the week with anything but a fresh dozen eggs.
But, reading soothed Panphila. It simply soothed her to be occupied at all, while sitting in her living room. She would sit on her plastic-covered couch with her back straight, and the white porcelain lamp to her left on, and the cream porcelain lamp to her right off. The television was always off, because Panphila had only ever used it to watch the news with and ever since her father’s death, she didn’t care much for the news. And besides, without the television, there would be no reason to keep the entertainment center which was what her yellow, porcelain ducks sat atop. Robbie had never liked those ducks. But, the television stayed, as did the ducks, and the white carpet, and the curtains the color of baby corn, and the old clock carved in the shape of an owl that hung above the arch leading into the dining room and ticked the seconds in the loud silence of Panphila’s reading.
Panphila glanced up from her book to that clock. It was not yet ten till four. At ten till four Panphila had to start walking to the mechanic’s shop to pick up her car at ten after four. The alternator had gone bad, so Panphila had been without a car since yesterday evening while it was being replaced. It’s why she’d had her groceries delivered that week. Tuesday was grocery day but Panphila always drove about twenty minutes away to her preferred ShopRite which was much cleaner and less crowded than the one near her house. She couldn’t have driven there today without an alternator, so the groceries had had to be delivered. She’d ordered them online last night, after she was told she wouldn’t get her car back till the next day.
Panphila looked at the clock again. It was quarter to four. She marked her place in her book and laid it down on the endtable to her left, turned off the lamp and put on her shoes.

*

Panphila dusted off the chair before she sat down, waiting for one of the mechanics to wait on her. She held her black purse tightly in her lap, and looked up at the clock. It was eleven after four.
The door leading out into the garage opened revealing the loud whirring and screeching of moving metal. A man, wiping dark grease onto his jeans, entered the room as well and went and stood behind the desk with the cash register and the computer. Panphila stood up and walked over, with her purse still in a vice-grip.
“Hi, how’s it going?” the man asked. He looked like a coffee drinker, not to mention his skin was the color of coffee with hazelnut cream. His hair, however, was as black as the grease on his pants.
Panphila started to say, “It’s -”
“You’re here for the Hyundai Accent?” The man cut her off, then stopped. He laughed,
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not used to people actually answering that.”
“Yes, I’m here for the Accent,” Panphila answered tightly.
“Okay,” the man replied, turning back to the computer. “Panphila Drakos...” He clicked a few times, focused on the screen, then looked up.
“Panphila,” the man said again. “That’s an interesting name.”
“It was my grandmother’s,” Panphila answered, defensively.
“What does it mean?” the man asked, curiously.
“Daughter who is loved by all.”
The man nodded in approval. “Wow. So, are you loved by all?”
“Are you a mechanic?” Panphila asked, snippily. “Or a therapist?”
The man went back to the computer screen. “My name means ‘Of the victorious people’. My family was not victorious, though.”
Panphila tapped her foot impatiently.
“Okay, so you owe $400 for the alternator. Debit or credit?”
“Debit.”
Panphila swiped her card, but it didn’t go through.
“Other way,” the man said. Panphila tried again, this time successfully. The man printed out her receipt and wrote something on the back of it before handing it to her along with her keys.
“I parked your car in the front,” the man said.
“Mm-hm,” Panphila replied, turning and heading dutifully out the door. Once in her car, she drove off immediately, making it home by four twenty-seven. It wasn’t until she was parked in front of her house that she pulled out her receipt to make sure it was correct. It was, but on the back was written, “Nicolas” and a phone number.

*

Panphila sat on her couch, absently sipping a cup of tea. A strand of black hair fell from her bun. She turned on the TV. A crime drama was on. Sirens roared on the screen and Panphila listened, drinking her tea.
She remembered the sirens from the night her father had died. Red and blue lights had mixed in her vision, blinding her with purple so she didn’t realize she was seeing her Babas at first, the mangled man being wheeled past her on a stretcher. Robbie had been with her, his hand on her shoulder. He’d been so calm.
“Yes, that’s my father-in-law. This is his daughter. No, he doesn’t have any other family. Sugar, are you okay to ride in the ambulance?”
Panphila turned off the TV and picked up the phone. She pulled the receipt out of her pocket and dialed the number on the back of it. It rang twice.
“Hello?”
“This is Panphila.”
“Oh, I didn’t think you would call.”
“Then why did you give me your number?”
“I hoped you would call - “
“Aren’t you supposed to ask me on a date now?”
“Yeah, so, do you like Indian food?”
“No.”
“Greek?”
“Really?”
“Italian?’
“Why not,” Panphila sighed.
“Friday night? I could pick you up around seven?”
“Okay.”
“Where do you live?”
“6523 Blanche Street. And, actually, get here fifteen minutes early. I need you to help me with something.”

*

Nicolas, it turned out, cleaned up pretty nice. When Panphila opened the door at six forty, he stood there in a light blue dress shirt and pants, a tie, a shave - the usual. Panphila wore a black dress, slimming and tight but still modest.
“You’re five minutes early,” Panphila said, frowning.
“You said to come early.”
“I said six forty-five.”
“Would you like me to go back to my car and knock again in five minutes?”
“Just come in.”
Panphila closed the door behind Nicolas when he entered, then stood with arms crossed, tapping her foot.
“Those are some nice ducks,” Nicolas commented, cocking a curious eyebrow at Panphila’s porcelain ducks.
“I’m trying to decide what to do with my television,” Panphila interjected, ignoring him.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know if I should smash it myself or let the trash truck do it for me.”
“Smashing it yourself would be more fun. For me at least.”
Panphila frowned. “Just help me carry it out.”
Nicolas opened the front door, then grabbed one end of the TV while Panphila grabbed the other. They hoisted it up, then outside, and finally eased it down on the curb. Panphila stood back with her hands on her hips, considering the lopsided television.
“Well,” she finally said. “What should I use to smash it?”
“I have a tire iron in my trunk,” Nicolas offered.
“That’ll work.”
“Just let me move my car before I get it out.”
Nicolas took his car a few houses down the block, then walked back to Panphila with a tire iron and a smile. He held the tire iron out to Panphila, then pulled it back when she reached for it.
“First, what did this TV do to you?”
“My ex bought it.”
“You know, you’re not supposed to talk about your ex on the first date.”
“You asked. Besides,” Panphila added. “ I’ll never mention him again.”
“That’s fair.” Nicolas smiled and handed over the tire iron.
Panphila shattered the screen first. Then she beat the body of the TV, crushing and mangling it into an unrecognizable mass. Robbie would have been cooly disapproving, not angry or horrified. Babas would have laughed at seeing his daughter bash at this television in a tight dress and heels. When Panphila stopped, she stood back and held the tire iron out to Nicolas. He walked towards her, taking it back while laughing.
“I think your neighbors might be moving soon.”
“They’re allowed,” Panphila said, unable to stop the small smile that stretched on her face.
“Are you ready to go now?” Nicolas asked.
“Yes. I am.”

Sassy

          I didn't hear anyone knocking at the door. I didn't hear the door open. I was napping in my room when I finally woke up to my mother yelling,
          "Sam!"
          I rolled out of bed, quite literally rolled, and hiked up my pants as far as they could go. Last year they'd been two sizes too big for me, now I could only squeeze into them on a good day.
          "Samantha!" my mom screamed again. "Come downstairs!"
          "Yeah, Mom! Give me a minute." I brushed my hand through my hair once or twice, then headed downstairs. I wasn't prepared to see Zeal. I wouldn't have come down if I'd known he was there. I wouldn't have come down if I'd know anyone was there aside from my mom. And I didn't even recognize Zeal for the first few seconds I looked at him. Somehow, he'd gotten more gorgeous. College had given him greater muscle tone, a copper complexion and two more piercings. I'd gotten the freshman fifty.
          "Sassy!" Zeal said when he saw me, and pulled me into a tight hug, kissing my hair. His arms no longer wrapped far enough around my waist to tickle the sides of my belly. My throat tightened.
          "Hey," I said dryly. I noticed my mom had left the room. I was horrified and relieved. If she had stayed, I wouldn't have to face Zeal by myself, but now that she was gone I only had to be humiliated in front of one person. Besides, I hated my mom for letting Zeal in and tricking me into coming downstairs.
          Zeal pulled back to look at me and brushed a strand of hair out of my face. I was burning.
          "My beautiful, beautiful Sassy," Zeal said, his thumb rubbing against my cheek. "I missed you."
          And that's when I started sobbing.

The world was full
and I danced all day
and sang to the birds
and held my Father's hand,
talking to him endlessly.

The garden was life,
the wind tickling my ear
with words from the air
and the ground held me,
keeping me close and stable.

The tree was beautiful,
with vines for leaves
and fruit that dripped,
hanging like droplets
from the vines.

The serpent was quiet,
it only whispered
and hissed
and slithered around me
till I was comfortable in its squeeze.

The fruit was sweet
like honeysuckles
or bee nectar
or ripe cherries
or the smell of fresh roses.

The fruit was bitter,
like the feel of thorns
or like bile
or thirst
or snake's venom.

I was exposed,
my Father knew
but I covered myself anyway
hoping I could hide my shame,
myself.

He was enraged
and betrayed.
He spoke like the mountains when they'd formed
and wept
like all of the waterfalls in Eden.

The curse was a pit
with so much darkness
I couldn't see beauty
and jagged glass
that pierced my opened eyes, then my womb.

The skins were a gift,
He stitched them Himself.
They protect me from the glass
and even now, when I wear them
I hear his faraway voice.

Hold it up to the light

like a color slide

watching rainbow spots 

like fruity pebbles

dance and move and 

illuminate.

You'll see all I have to tell,

if you try.

Pick me up and spin me around,

and watch my smile,

my hair

illuminate.

Gold and red

like waves of sunshine.

Just take the time

And hold me up to the light.

*The first two lines are taken from Billy Collins' "Introduction to Poetry". The rest, is mine.

Chlöe

          It's been awhile since I've put anything up here, so I decided to put up an excerpt of a longer piece that I'm working on. I'm not sure if this will be the exact beginning of the piece, but it will be in the beginning. I think it's pretty good for a start and I hope you like it too.

*

          “You wanna do what?” Chase asked. He and Rob were sitting on the floor of his room, playing Xbox. Their eyes made fervent darts across the TV screen but their thumbs moved faster. They were leaning against Chase’s bed, which hadn’t been made in – well – ever, and occasionally swatted at the colony of flies that occupied the room.

            “I want to star in the school play this year,” I repeated.

            “Dammit!” Chase yelled, throwing down the controller. Rob chuckled victoriously.

            “Did you hear me?” I asked. Chase sighed and turned to me.

            “School play?” he said, as if the play was what smelled like month-old Monster. “You’ve got to be kidding, right?”

            I shook my head. “Nope. It looks really interesting. It’s not some boring old rehash of Broadway shows long gone. This year it was written by a student. And besides,” I shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to act.”

            “Only wussies care about that kind of thing,” Chase sneered. “And you just said it yourself. You don’t know how to act, why would you get picked? And to be the star, of all things?”

            I leaned my head against the giant bosom of a swimsuit model on the wall. I felt my throat closing but I tried not to let it show in my voice.

            “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got some secret acting talent or something.”

            “Clo, I doubt it. You? Act?”

            I let out a sob. I hated myself for it.

            “Here comes the waterworks,” Rob sighed. “Again.”

            Chase stood up and came over to me, taking me in his arms. I let out a couple more gentle sobs before regaining control of myself, and pressed quietly into Chase’s chest.

            “I guess I wouldn’t be any good at acting, huh?” I asked, finally.

            “No,” Chase answered. “So forget about this play thing. Okay? I just don’t want you embarrassing yourself in front of other people, okay?”

            “Okay.”

            Chase let go of me and sat back down. “Sit down here with Rob and me.”

            “Just don’t cry on me,” Rob warned, wrinkling his nose.

            I sat in between them and laid my head on Chase’s shoulder while they went back to their game. I watched as they marched around in the game world, shooting off every living head. I wondered if the heads were me.