2020 Arcturus Online Gallery

Opal opened the door to a tiny shop. The bell rang sharp and clear as she shuffled in. The floor to ceiling shelves made the darkened room feel cramped. Her eyes shifted over the space and the shadowy corners- how the small windows at the entrance let in a soft buttery light from the afternoon sun. She soaked it all in, trying to commit it to memory. She knew it futile though. She’d soon forget it all by the time she arrived home.

She eyed the aisle to her left and decided to start there. On a shelf at eye level sat pieces of fine blue china. She had no doubt that it cost an arm and a leg during her childhood, but now the price tag read $15. Next to that lay an old eggbeater needing to be cranked by hand to use. Seeing the eggbeater tickled the back of her mind, memories came flooding back in fragments. She used to help her mother make breakfast in the morning. Opal’s long brown hair used to catch in it. She chuckled at the thought, reaching up to the back of her neck where her hair was now white, cut close and cropped to her head. Easier to manage in her old age.

Farther down the aisle she came upon an old basket filled with books. Dust assaulted her nose as she picked one up from the stack. Goodnight Moon. She remembered when it was first published. Her mother used to read it to her and her three siblings to help them fall asleep. She convinced herself the dust made her eyes water. She set the faded colorful book down on a nearby shelf and glided on to the next object that caught her eye.
She marveled at how advanced things had become. At the end of the aisle, a stack of ancient suitcases lay dormant. At the top perched a yellow cracked one. It was flimsy and would no longer protect anything of value. You also had to carry it. The handle, worn and grossly off-center from the many uses and lives it once carried. She felt relieved, such worries could plague her no longer. She doubted her old bones could handle the stress anymore. Now they obtained wheels and pockets! So many pockets.

Opal sighed, running a crooked finger over one of the cracked seams. Maybe she would buy that book… the name escaped her now, but she’d find it. The book would return her memories stolen by this awful disease. Maybe she would read it to her grandchildren, telling them what it was like when her own mother read it to her. Then her lovely daughter would stop sending her worrying glances every time she forgot where she parked, when her husband died, their names.

Opal shook her head and turned back to the overflowing basket of books, searching for it. But the book had disappeared. She rubbed her forehead with a wrinkled hand. Where did it go? It couldn’t have gone far. She pulled one book off the top of the stack then another and another. She shook her head. An orange and green cover caught her eye, resting on the edge of a shelf. A breath of relief slipped past her lips. There it lay. Opal clutched the book tightly to her chest, not letting it wander away again. Yes, the book would help.

I strut down the stairs and into my dining room, where the beautiful beams of the Saturday morning sunlight illuminate its essence. As usual, Alex is already up in the seat I dragged him into after our Friday night TV and ice cream session.

“You know, you don’t have to wait for me to wake up to start making breakfast. It is my pleasure, of course, but it’d be nice to wake up to the smell of bacon every once in a while.”

I get some eggs and bacon out of the fridge, turn on the radio for some background noise, and start whipping up breakfast. When I serve Alex his plate, he forgets to say thank you. Again. I look up from the table at him and notice he has turned to a hue of green, as opposed to his usual pretty shade of purple. His neck is cocked back, and he is staring up at the ceiling. I pull his head level to mine, and remind him about our manners. I let go, and his head falls straight down. He’s staring at the plate beneath him now. Still no thank you.

“Alexander. I am getting sick and tired of this behavior. This is the fourth day in a row you aren’t getting anything to eat. If this happens again, I’m just going to have to throw you out back with your brother, who by the way already has maggots feasting on his eyes.”

We are sculpted with the Earth.

Our legs are like trees, 

made of red muscle and bone.

We are rivers and rapids of blood flow

like nectar from the fruit of the vine.

We are organic machinery.

Our hands are claws made of pumping pink mush.

Small shields of keratin decorate the tips.

Little threads sprout on us in collagen gardens, 

which we tend to like farmers

in passing seasons.

Incredible is the tongue that tastes,

sensing each feature

each flavor.

Mountains and ridges are in our mouths.

We have valleys and cliffs in each inch. 

Our pulses sing like birds.

Like wind, we pull the air. 

Watch us thrive.

You peer out at me

Broken and useless, 

Naked and ugly

Void of life 

Once 

Lightning coursed through your copper veins

No more. 

We stare 

Face to face

I don’t see you. 

You are just 

Part of the rough-cut trailer walls. 

You embody our hand-me-down house

Cracking and old, stricken with mold

You 

Are the house 

You are all we can get 

You

Don’t matter. You don’t matter. Because 

Our light doesn’t come from some switch 

Because 

We 

Don’t get our light from some switch because we 

Get our light from each other.

Perhaps you didn’t know that It truly

bugs me when I am not constantly

being rubbed. Your long white claw things

brushing through my silky black fur.

While my tail, with a mind of its own

whips back and forth like a metronome

keeping its own time, keeping its own rhythm.

Perhaps you didn’t know that

I am sad and a bit scared when

you leave me. The big brick box

we live in is alive when you’re gone.

The floorboards stretching and cracking,

or the huge sighs of warm air that

gush from the small metal

holes in the ceiling.

Perhaps you didn’t know that

the vibrations and growls that come from

your chest at night are always waking me up.

So, I walk in circles around the bar to tire myself out

like the sheep you’re always counting

in your sleep, I count my cycles around

and around and around. 

We are another part of nature
reborn like so many rainbows,
or like clouds moving in flocks.

From one place to another
we migrate to discover the world,
and to reproduce.

Flying above the skies,
cross the oceans,
landing in new cities,
our life never becomes boring.

But ever so often,
we miss going back to our birthplace.

A place we can never forget;
our home.

I struggle to fondle this thought

it glides over each piece of this question

with my lack of wisdom.

How can I overthink?

my lover leaves me heedless

to the suspicion that this

could ever happen.

When the softening air opens like an envelope

and the cushioned warmth surrounds me,

I have no choice but to submit to happiness.

At an instant, my spirit will break

and crash down like thunderstorms

to usher out the joyful play

of a perfect love story.

The lies you have sent oscillate my spine,

my blood pressure elevates to a monolith,

and my face lowers and cracks like a bulb.

I am wrapped around your love like a straitjacket

everything I thought I could grab is out of reach.

I was a stranger from the moment I tied my apron, 

A soulless worker, 

Forbidden from any emotion other than that of pure joy.

My face, a plaster mask,

My eyes the only sign of life.

My words, a memorized charade, 

Meaning nothing, 

Only there to satisfy the customers.

When I was lucky, I would prepare the drinks.

That too, a routine, but one I enjoyed to a point. 

My hands that of an automaton, programmed with only one word in mind, 

Efficiency.  

In a single motion, the milk whisked into the pitcher.

The steaming machine coaxed to life and adjusted until it purred its approval,

The milk swirled and frothed into a silky new substance. 

The shots pulled, 

Hissing, the machine spits them out.

The two opposites mix, 

Form one. 

When I was unlucky, I would be put on the window. 

There was always a warning, 

An alarming sound that signaled the arrival of a new customer.

I would soon grow to despise this sound.

Once again I would put on the mask,

Practice the motions in my head, 

Lock my emotions deep inside.

The sound would soon come again, 

Leaving me with no respite,

No break from the charade, 

Stuck in the cycle until the lazy clock moved its hands.