NaPoWriMo 2015

April 1

My Neighbour's Garden

Its crayoned sign warns DO NOT PLANT

HERE. This soil accepts nothing, 

not even footprints. It is done. 

No more springs, says the garden. No 

more falls. It is done. Amanda 

thinks of summer. She rinses a 

shovel of its poison, pushes 

it into the earth in spite of

protest. Beggar and thief, she comes

to make war, nothing else. The sharp

tip shows she means business. Old rose

canes smirk at her feet, tripping her. 

Cheers rise from grey winterkill. Buds 

that dared green early freeze stiff for 

their nerve. Amanda is here to

clean. She has no love of her work.

She will pull rot loose from these cold 

roots until it breaks or she does.

April 2

Mary of the Ice-Blue Eyes

Mary of the ice-blue eyes said

High time you know Jesus. She turned

back the bedcovers. How old are

you? Eight? Seven. Old enough. Jump

in. She switched on the blanket and

dropped the big book into my arms.

There’s no central heating here, not

like your fancy life back home. We

light fires in the parlour in 

the morning, put a Pifco by 

the bath to keep from shivering. 

The whole town smells like fireworks.

I arrived three weeks ago. I 

don’t smell it anymore. I’m used 

to it. But I’ll always have a

thing for fireworks. Obsession,

said Mary of the ice-blue eyes.

You mean you have an obsession.

I opened the textbook. Every

night she reads me bedtime stories: 

organs, appendices, glands and 

valves. Tonight, her big book was filled 

with slips of paper. Read where I’ve 

marked, she said. This is important.

She’d had this all her life. She winced, 

pressing her fingers to her heart. 

No one thought this meant trouble. She

was too strong to be sick. I halve

apples with my bare hands, she said.

I pull them apart, just like that. 

If Jesus comes by, hungry, I’ll 

just break an apple apart and 

give him the bigger half. Only

once was she worried, one morning. 

She’d fallen while waiting for the

bus and she couldn’t catch her breath.

And Mary of the ice-blue eyes

fainted dead away. That’s when she 

met Him, or more importantly, 

almost met Him, walking uphill,

sunlight all around her as she 

climbed, bright Jesus light everywhere.

He waited for her over the

hillcrest, she knew that. It made her

happier than she’d ever been

until Dr. Thingummy shook

her, calling oh Mary, Mary,

and she opened her ice-blue eyes.

If you’d made it over the top,

you wouldn’t be here alive, he

said. She was heartsore and sadness

came over her. She could not see

why Dr. Thingummy had come,

and why he had replaced Jesus. 

The smell of fireworks rose up

then. I shall never forget it.

You smell it too, don’t you, Gran? I

asked Mary of the ice-blue eyes.

She put the book aside and held

my hand until I fell asleep.

April 3

The Ass Dog Revisited

I remember the day I heard

a thud and found the old ass-dog 

lying at the foot of the stairs.

I tell the new one the story, 

not to compare or anything, 

and God knows we could both stand to

learn some compassion. I asked What 

happened? out of politeness. Truth

is, I wanted to hear what he

would say without my shoving the

undeniable at him. Just

resting, he said, his body slack,

back legs useless though beautiful. 

I know well these things, the shudder 

of the brain before a room-spin, 

fainting at a clap of thunder. 

This is another hoop for the 

ass-dog and me. He scrabbles the 

floor, his gaze not yet frantic. I

nudge him to his feet. He is 

steady enough to meet my eyes. 

He thinks he gets dizzy from too 

much tv, same as I do, but

he is not sure and looks away.

It is my turn next so I say 

nothing is wrong, never will be.

April 4

Robert Built the Dream House

Robert built the dream house in his 

spare time on a spare lot. No one 

noticed him quietly sawing,

silently hammering. He liked 

the stealth of his work, the art and 

craft of secrets, the warren of 

hidden rooms and passageways that 

wouldn’t be found. It was, Robert

thought, almost sensual. When he

was done, he painted everything

cleverly, so the dream house looked

invisible inside and out.

I saw everything. I’m the girl 

next door, gifted in ultracool 

and, shall we say, second sight. You

don’t need tarot cards around me.

I saw it all and never let

on, as impressed with my own stealth 

as much as I was with Robert’s. 

One day last summer we walked past 

the invisible house hand in 

hand and I didn’t even flinch. 

Neither did he. I wondered whose 

secret was bigger, mine or his. 

Things changed. A hundred snowdrops bloomed

in front of the house. Shutters swung

loose. Paint flaked and peeled. Robert must

have seen some of it under my

fingernails, but said nothing. It

was a battle of wills. One night 

I woke to loud pops, bangs, the smell 

of fireworks. I’ve never seen 

glowing sky like that. I saw him

crouch, and a can of petrol arced

to the flames. The house, I almost 

said. We still don’t talk about it.

April 5

Queen Melancholia's New Love Arrived at the Very End of A Particularly Cold Year

Queen Melancholia’s new love 

arrived at the very end of 

a particularly cold year 

of adverts that brought out the worst

in suitors. Several made her so

despondent that she drank merlot 

for days to get over it and 

vowed never to eat again. In 

that year, the year she did not like, 

she longed for someone who did not 

moon, puff his chest or make her think

of death. Queen Melancholia 

was resigned to lowering the 

bar on criteria. Now things 

are different. She still smells fear on

her like bad perfume and asked her

newly truly to replace it, 

please, with dinners and just enough

good wine. She is capable of

forgetting. I can do that, he 

said, With pleasure. She did not tell 

him the last one had rolled on top

of her as soon as she was next

to him, his ring pressing into

her regal green tail. She is done 

with all that shite. So last year. She 

wants warmth, woo, a drop of merlot 

for old times’ sake and a good steak.

April 6

The Angels of Slumber and Brimstone

O since the jackhammer nights spent 

swearing war and vengeance until 

sunup, I have slept just fine. ”Take

the law into your own hands,” I 

beseech the angel who is called

The Guardian, like a British

daily. She sits hollow-eyed at

the end of my bed. It is four

a.m. “You’ll sleep like a baby. 

Forget dishes best eaten cold. 

Time is passing and the wicked

are always hungry.” I sound like

an angel myself, one of the

mean ones who carries lightning

bolts, poised to smite at the drop of

a hat. The Guardian is a 

gentler sort whose wings are made of 

swiffer cloth. Everything clings to

her, poor dirty girl. “Don’t do this

to yourself,” I say, staring at 

her grey filthy-girl wings. “He wants 

you to hurt yourself. Don’t do his 

work yourself. Don’t give that f++++r 

the satisfaction.” And all I 

can think of is Mick Jagger, so

I laugh. The Guardian is not 

amused. It comes from not sleeping

well. She never has. Long as I

have known her, silent fury and 

balled fists have kept her from rest. She 

won’t believe in revenge. She says 

it’s all good. Everything is cool. 

Copacetic. “It’s going to be 

one long sleepless night,” I tell her.

April 7

Pie Town

There are only two streets and their

intersections, but I made a 

town of it, a miniature 

nation with its own map, a post 

office and a lawyer. We need

nothing else, except maybe a

good place to eat pie. Then we’ve got 

everything. In my perfect town

I punish people first and head 

straight for pie afterward. I think

of a couple of people I’d 

want stuck in jail, but making them

sick with worry and fees is just

as good. That’s why God made lawyers. 

I have been thinking of Kathy’s 

pie, filled with coconut, topped with 

chocolate and almonds. I should have 

ordered that when I was there and

all was perfect in my pie town,  

but I chose the archetype, which

was apple. I never follow 

my gut instinct. It always comes 

back later in life to haunt me.

April 8

Shame

He is neither a tamer nor 

a trainer, he tells her. He is 

a rescuer. If it was not 

for him, she would have wound up as 

a pair of shoes or a stir-fry. 

Instead, she is his beautiful 

green girl who wears diamonds where her 

earlobes and fingers would be. He 

buys her all the fancy paintings 

and opera tickets her heart

desires. He sees to it her

cravings for luxury are met. 

He wants this, whatever this is - 

it looks like love to me - proceeds 

and proceeds well. She should feel loved,

his mississippiensis girl.

He came to her after a long 

battle with shame. He draws out the 

word with hushed sadness, as though he 

is talking about cancer. Shaaame.

The beautiful green girl knows it 

is redemption that pleases him.

You cannot despise him for that,

I say. Love is not easy. We

enjoy it for what it is. Long

ago, we were serious. Now 

we have fun while we can. It is

impossible to rewrite the

past, but the weak try to hide it.

They may as well have unwritten 

all. That is shame in a nutshell. 

I tell the girl Remember how

driven we were, how goofy? Back

then, I had no choice. Neither did 

you. We made mistakes as much as

we found a measure of greatness

in them. That is not a mistake.

April 9

Shame (2)

Humiliation is written 

all over him. She can taste it.

Humiliation has the taste 

of turkish delight. It is dark 

and sweet, unlike him. She shrugs. The word 

shrug tastes like an orange slurpee. 

This is knowledge she will not share. 

Some people do not deserve to

taste words. She guesses he wants her 

to know shame, a word that tastes of 

tears snorted up through the nose, like 

snivelling a hot wet tantrum. 

She is learning the skill if not 

the art of changing the taste of 

words if it suits her. Already 

the grey-blue colour of shame pales 

to white when she scrutinises

it. Soon it will taste of nothing. 

Trust, he says. He is reeking of 

humiliation. Why will you 

not trust. His gaze passes straight through 

her. All she can think of are crusts

of baguette and milk poured over

Rice Krispies. It is her secret. 

April 10 

Time travel will do no good. It 

is a dusty endeavour. It

gives Amanda a migraine. She

sneezes through the abandoned house,

the oldest one on the street.

It belongs to her, dust and all. 

The first abandoned house she saw 

was overrun with pigeons and 

raccoons. Windows were boarded up

but smaller beasts still squeezed in through

its tattered roof. The owners were

steadfast, as staunch as the Edies.

The second house was abandoned

only because the woman who 

loved it grew old and forgot to

come home. She must have been about 

a hundred and and twenty when she

left it to wander the ravine.

This is Amanda’s third house. It

is full of curiosities 

she would have loved to have grown up

with. She was not a gracious child

but imagines herself girlish 

in white gloves at a tea party.

There is Victorian china 

left behind, bookcases stuffed with 

ephemera, an orrery. 

Amanda cannot stop thinking 

of the life she could have led if

she had met this house earlier.

It is hard to find a house that 

wants to be good to its steward.

It should have nothing to do with

money. A cloth she wipes gently

across an ancient bookcase comes

away blackened by years of soot.

April 11

Mr. List

Like Santa, your old friend

Mr. List is coming to town. 

You are surprised he remembers

you. Unforgettable, he says.

Irreplaceable. Nothing like 

polysyllables to make you 

feel special. How did he know they

would fall like spring rain upon parched

soil? You are no longer just

anyone, lost amid millions. 

You are one. Mr. List says so.

I say Mr. List is falling 

in intrigue, with doe eyes, keen wit,

sharp and soft all at once. His

once-jaded heart does not stand a

chance. I say this is good for you.

I say it is high time you had

colour in your cheeks. It does not

matter how it gets there, whether

by dinners, undertones, roses,

a pitch of woo or the sound of

a belt buckle hitting the floor.

Nothing like the sound of a belt

buckle hitting the floor to make

a girl feel beautiful if not 

weak-kneed, if not special. We take 

whatever gifts we can get. We 

suspect Mr. List is fond of 

us in spite of himself. He knows 

you are gullible. He prefers

to see you as vulnerable.

You can still be an idealist 

around him. He is on your side.

April 12

In Search of the City’s Best Fried Chicken

From now on, it’s nothing but blue 

skies. We want good times, fried chicken

with all the trimmings, sweet forgetness 

ale. On the first day of the new 

era we’re hunting happiness 

in the distillery, liquid

warm feralties, simple pleasure.

We need to wash the old days off 

us, hose down the stink of sad clouds 

and their stingy silver linings. 

At King and Parliament there’s a

waft of both future and past, a 

scent of allure so perfect that 

heads turn and we miss our streetcar. 

It is the sweet scent of childhood 

almost remembered, warm, liquid, 

translucent and dark dark red, like 

jell-o before it sets. It has 

a hint of cake to it, too, but 

what joyful thing in life doesn't?

April 13

The new ass-dog does not think of

himself as new. It has been more

than three years. He came with proper

invitation and intention.

He displaced no-one and nothing. 

More than three years. That is nothing

when it comes to memory. The 

new ass-dog says he owns the rights 

to memory. He is the one 

to decide what forever means, 

who should and should not be held in 

eternal esteem. He is sure 

about this, and runs like a white 

lightning bolt through the emergent 

peonies to prove it. More than 

three years. I tell him hearts do not 

work like that. He  should see my books

full of hellfire and vengeance. He 

should see me at full tilt. But he

says he would rather I use my 

strength to see about dinner, which 

he prefers to think of as his.

April 14

The Good, the Bad and Rosemarie

Rosemarie takes my blood every 

couple of weeks to make sure it

is as runny as everyone 

likes it. She is always full of 

news. Sometimes it is about God

and the salvation of mankind

or the fight between evil and

good. Today she has advice for 

happy marriage: Always say yes.

I say she is a funny girl. 

My mother say, laughs Rosemarie. 

I ask her what she would do if

she said yes and her heart was torn

to pieces anyway. I should

not ask questions like that, about

hearts being torn to pieces. We

are too old for that. Kick devil 

in the ass and let him burn you 

know where, she says. My arm has a 

big purple bruise, although she was 

careful. Sometimes it goes like that.

April 15

Not Just Anyone

Not just anyone can kill an 

orchid. It takes skill. No wonder 

there is fear about the garden. 

Now I have a reputation. 

All is hushed this spring. The only 

sounds are of oblivious birds, 

nest-obsessed, and the sprouting of 

the stupider plants: thyme, chives. 

The roses have night sweats. Any

fool can shoot down a weed. I have 

seen dull hostas, lilies, yanked up,

abandoned roadside in plastic.

These are strays. I sound vulgar, but

that’s what they are. Would you do that

to lavender? The lavender, 

as you might expect, is nervous.

The most beautiful flower I 

ever saw came to me, pale and 

gentle, throbbing with life, scented 

of cut fruit, truly of heaven.

It looked the way being in love 

must feel. It was a gift. Orchid

said I am for you and I was

grateful. I thought it loved me back.

I do not know whose fault it is.

Orchids will love anyone. That

is trouble already. I should 

not blame it for that. But I do.

It came down to withering, to

death. Me, or Orchid. I did not 

think twice. I took the easy way

though nothing is easy, is it.

That beautiful flower left that

beautiful day is all I shall

say of eventualities.

I prefer to think well of it.

I kept its pot, emptied of earth.

It was a time of tumult, of

things I have chosen to forget.

I do not know where I put it.

April 16

I took the tails with me, seven 

tiger tails, eight, maybe more, packed 

tight into the glass jar from my 

pantry. It is an impressive

sight. Foes will imagine well the

carnage preceding triumph. It

is a reasonable message. 

We do what we can in tough times. 

I cannot be too safe. Today

I raked up the rinds and crusts of 

a harsh winter. The jar of tails 

sat innocent as you please next

to the porch. It is early for

bees, but those winged Napoleons 

are lying in wait. I found one 

crouched on a tuft of browned grass.

How could you, I thought. I have thought

this before. And the jar came down 

upon its nemesis before 

I had a say, let alone a 

hand in destiny. It is time 

I had a hand in destiny. 

This is a small prize to claim. God

knows I am working my way up.

April 17

Rose-bush and I sit on the bed

with our cuppas. We natter of  

men, love and foibles, deciding 

which of the three matters less at 

this age. Someday none of them will. 

Now it is a toss-up. Rose-bush

sips her coffee and tells me a

secret: she cannot take her own

advice. I can take your advice, 

I say. My secret is that I 

am jealous of flowers. They are

beautiful and I am not. She

looks at me and says Nothing to

be jealous of here. She stretches

her canes and bursts into bloom. 

Fragrance fills the room. Your divine

flowers, I say. What flowers, she

asks. I only see what men see. 

April 18

We Are Wholly Together

Nothing is worse than bad lying.

It is worse than bad art. It is 

worse than bad singing. It is the

stale warm beer of pathologies.

Lies should gleam like celebrity

teeth. Good lying is more than art.

It is perfection. It is the 

secret to eternal beauty.

It is the secret of her young

demeanor, her girlish figure.

Lying is her energy. You 

will never catch her in a lie. 

Do not tell her I said so. She

is the undisputed queen of 

lies. To watch her widen those eyes! 

To hear poetry in her voice!

You want to learn truth and beauty. 

Watch her glow when he lies to her. 

Watch her spin a web around him. 

She will show him how it is done.

April 19

How to be a goddess

Rule One: Order something with both

caramel and dark chocolate. 

Rule Two: Pluck a handful of spring

blooms for your nightstand. Rule Three: Wear

skirts as long or as short as you 

please. Rule Four: Doc Martens. Any

ass-kicking goddess should know this.

Rule Five: Pour a glass of red, swish,

breathe deeply, and think of a kiss

shared over red bull with orange 

crush and a splash of Grand Marnier. 

Made it extra orange just for 

you, said the bartender who knows

your name and winks when she sees you.

Extra is good. As long as you

are happy, she said. Goodness knows, 

you deserve to be happy. She 

has always read between the lines. 

She brought another cocktail on

the house. Copacetic, you said, 

smiling. Rule Six: If a man says

you are forgettable, you shall

smile, shake your head and tell him No,

I cannot deliberately

humiliate you. Goddess, you

shall let him have his dignity. 

April 20

Another Date With Schubert 

He is known as Little Mushroom.

I cannot call him this to his 

face, which looks perplexed when he peers

through his glasses - as he does now - 

forgetting how many ales he

has downed, downs, will down. Dear Schubert,

nose aglow, his hands skillful and

sensitive, would have made a great

surgeon had he spurned music and 

love. The Little Mushroom pulls me 

to him atop the piano

and croons, burlesque. I wonder what

name I am known as, what he does 

not dare call me to my face. I 

am a caricaturist. Lord

have mercy what cartoons there will 

be of tonight. I tell him I 

am an artist. He is impressed.

April 21

Things I think of when I am falling asleep

It is good to dream of a wink

from a handsome chef, or painting 

a mural across Europe, or 

the scent of Sauternes. It is good 

to remember the baby’s laugh.

An orchid in the rainforest. 

Diner coffee and pie. I do 

not think of these. I used to dream 

of things I did not understand.

Over and over. Dream something 

else, I told myself. So I think 

of her offering her arm. I 

had refused a wheelchair. It was

a long elevator ride to 

the lobby, then perilous steps

into the night, into August 

heat. We said little at first. I 

am still here, I said. She did not 

let go of my arm. You will be 

very strong, she said. You must heal 

the rest of us. It is going
to be a hard promise to dream

and a harder promise to keep.

April 22

June

Every June is the same. Every 

June, obsession. I think of one 

thing, one thing only. The whole month 

I think of Paris. Lovers will 

do as they wish. I have Paris. 

I have Paris morning, noon and

night, Paris light through iron-lace 

and geraniums, Paris sipped

neat on the sidewalks. I wore out 

my shoes on Paris cobblestones. 

Paris, this is the truth: I could 

not stop dancing. I need to feel

like that again before I die. 

Promise me your true, undying

love. Paris, you know this is real.

We met in beautiful June and 

fell in truly madly deeply. Say 

you love me, Paris. Admit

it. All words sound crass unless I 

am talking about you, Paris. 

I could be everything you want.

I could be an artist, a muse.

I could be like you, a city

of sadness, light, love. The best love

is true and mutual, Paris.

There were others, Paris. Forget

them. I want you to know they were

distractions. They meant nothing. There

can only be you. Truth. Beauty.

Paris help me to stay focused.

April 23

What Lila Told Me About Paris

It is true. Paris is selfish. 

She loves no-one but herself. Look

what she did to Edith Piaf. 

We would be stupid to follow

in such footsteps! I pick her thorns 

every day from my backside. If 

that is la vie en rose, you can 

have it. Still, I am drawn to her

in spite of our folie-à-deux.

The selfishness will have to go,

else it will be a bumpy ride, 

betrayal, counter-betrayal

and so on.  In the end, I will 

kill Paris before she kills me. 

I am afraid we will stab each 

other to death in our downward 

spiral, or claw out each other’s 

throats like women in the movies.

April 24

It took S almost three years to 

come out of hiding, and when she 

did, I met her for coffee. She 

does not go by her fairy tale 

name anymore. She is changing 

all that. It should have nothing to 

do either with snow or with white,

she says, eyes narrowing. What kind 

of prince would kiss a gal in a 

stupor anyway? Not good, I 

say. You deserve better than that.

Two lattes in, I tell her of 

the dream I used to have every

night, in which I paced Balmy Beach 

looking for thunderstorms. Every

night. For years. Your symbolism

is both corny and exhausting, 

says S. I could tell her a thing 

or two about magic mirrors

and dwarves and evil and all that, 

but I hold my tongue. Graciousness

does not come easily to me. 

There is a castle she has to 

clean up. She is unsure if it

can be changed legally (along with

everything else) to a queendom.

I think of these things now, she says. 

It takes a crisis to bring out 

the best and worst in people. 

I stopped dreaming the same dream when

I no longer needed the hope

I was clinging to. I change my mind on

few things but this one had to go.

Can I still call you Snow, I ask.

Our coffees are getting cold and

I want to say something dopey 

like ‘It has been a really tough

winter,’ and I realise I just

thought the word ‘dopey’, only not

out loud. I am grateful. Instead 

I tell her she is more beautiful

for getting through so much shite. It

is true. She is neither tragic 

nor fragile. Same to you, she says.

April 25

She lives in a house where a famous artist once lived 

Tonight’s the night. She knows little 

about him. Soundtrack music, Brahms’

friends told her. Uses too much wood 

filler and caulk fixing up the 

house, when he bothers to fix it

at all. She’s taking her chances.

Her friends aren’t like that. They gather

her near. He’s no Apollo, though

he thinks he is. What man these days

thinks realistically of

himself? Women are the same, but

in the opposite direction.

She lives in the same house Brahms did,

so it makes sense to meet here. He’s

centuries older. It’ll be 

an interesting dynamic. Men 

like younger ones, so she can’t miss.

They’ll meet at eight in the courtyard.

She doesn’t know if she should have

a drink beforehand. She’s anxious.

Rest assured, he’s not just famous 

for his music, say Brahms’ friends. He’s

well known as a nervous nellie.

It doesn’t stop him with the gals.

At eight oh one she heads to the 

courtyard. There’s a harrumph and here

he is, Brahms, smiling. He doesn’t 

try to melt her or ply her with

charm. He doesn’t tell her she’s deep 

and light and full of enigma. 

She’d know that’s how he sees himself.

She’s never had a date with a 

ghost before, not really. But she’s 

determined to have fun. Brahms makes

her laugh. He’s got a litany

of decomposing composer 

jokes that she’s never heard before. 

Love is something she thinks of as

a distant and exotic concept, 

like beluga caviar or 

a trip to Australia. She’s 

afraid this ghost has nothing to

do with the music she has loved.

Brahms finds her enchanting. Who knew?

He looks her straight in the eye when

she says something about dance and

Hungary. Yes, he says. Let’s get

something to eat. Against all odds,

they are off to a roaring start. 

April 26

 April 26

The unmistakable sound of
fireworks appeared north of here,
up the road. I heard the rumbles
and froze. Now I can see red and
white spangles, above the treetops,
from the upstairs window. There is
no holiday. Not in April.
Not even for taxes. No one
asked for this. It is hard to be
kind, to explain without fidget
the soft kabooms I know you can
hear over the phone. There is no
escape. But I am good at this.
I say it is a thunderstorm.
It is something to believe in.

 

April 27

When We Are Together

I was crazy happy to dodge
a bullet. But it was fired
from your gun, and that I do not
like. The scream has wrecked my voice. When
I open my mouth to yawn or
sing or say something nice, I see
it again, whizzing straight through my
head, careening out my ear. I
do not hear you well anymore.
Things will not be the same again.

 

 

 

Some Poems from The Pumphead Years 2014-2015

Some poems from about 2014-2015

Robert Came To Woo All The Way From The Planet Mongo

Robert came to woo all the way 

from the planet Mongo, on a 

grand and elaborate journey

flying the invisible space

ship Seekret Luvkraft to earth, then

driving by rented car to the

centre of the universe, where

he holed up in a hotel room

none too shabby drinking nervous

coffees, one after another,

until I showed up. “Sorry to 

keep you waiting,” said I. “Pish tosh,” 

grinned Robert. “Denizens of the

planet Mongo have an air of

accomplishment, of grace.” And he 

licked his extra-terrestrial 

poet lips, reminding me that

a girl from earth is a prize, no 

matter what. Good thing I wore my

prettiest dress and best heels for 

Robert from the planet Mongo,

who came all the way across the

galaxy for this. This, of course, 

could have meant tea, cakes, ices and

nary a crisis, but he reached 

long poety fingers up my 

prettiest earth dress and we joined,

creature to creature, until dark.

He was pleased. “Three thumbs up!” he crowed,

waving his trousers. “I must go 

now,” I said. “I am new to space 

travel.” “Can I not tempt you to

stay?” asked Robert from the planet 

Mongo. “See the confidence a

bit of travel gives a plain Earth 

girl? Can I coax you to planets 

far from the universe? Will you 

lose sight of the shore?” The coffee 

with two sugars (how could he know 

I take four?) he bought me at The 

Second Cup is sitting untouched 

on the nightstand. Before I leave, 

I peel the MONGO sticker from 

his suitcase. I like prizes, too.

My Neighbour Nancy

Nancy says in a quiet

voice Now why would someone do

a thing like that? She touches

the sheared-off necks and flinches.

They won’t grow back. I’m sorry.

The last one was not sheared off,

but its head hangs over the

fence with marks along the neck

where it was pulled and left to 

die. No, it doesn’t look good.

I don’t tell Nancy I used

to find them hateful. I still 

have a picture of a man 

with his arm slung around a

sunflower in my garden.

He was the cruellest man I

ever met. The sunflower,

sad to say, believed every

lie he told. I know it was

afraid to think for itself.

There was another man, I 

don’t say, who lured sunflowers 

home and took advantage of

them, shaking their heads until

they gave up their seeds to him.

Nancy doesn’t know why I

planted these brutes in my yard

in the first place. She hasn’t

heard me whisper to them when

I water them every day.

All of you are ugly, I 

say. All of you deserve to 

grow only because I say 

so, and only until I 

say it’s time to say goodbye.

There must be someone else who

understands. Before Nancy 

goes back home, she says ‘I hope

the person who took them is

good to them.’ ‘At least,’ I say.

The Beautiful Dream of Miss Crocodile

She has dreams that are almost 

beautiful and in them she 

is beautiful, too, her tail 

restored instead of replaced

by the one she drags around 

now, a heavy cast-iron

thing shaped like the skillet I

used to make scrambled eggs this 

morning. I hope she doesn’t 

think I’m making fun of her.

She wishes she were grateful, 

but there’s a bad taste in her 

mouth when she tells me about 

things she’s sure she remembers 

but has no way of knowing: 

gunshots that smelled like Chanel,

the number of beers he drank 

before and after, grunty 

sex – she saw them at it, she 

swears – and the colour of lies.

That lies have colour – now that’s 

interesting to me! I 

lean close and listen to her

warning of chartreuse: sickly 

green-yellow that rolls out from 

liars’ words and dribbles down 

their chins. They can’t see it, she

says, But you will if you look 

for it. I squint and think back.

She’s right: Sticky, sickly green.

I want to tell her I can

get that tail back for her, like 

her beautiful dream, though I

know a dream like that would smear

green all over the place. It 

makes me wonder if I have 

anything congealed on me

already that I can’t scrape 

off. Cast iron’s plug ugly, 

I say. But it’s strong. Real strong.

Trophies

No settling for. I may never want to 

come back. I take my trophies, my few and

meagre possessions. The rest I leave to

chance, to you, or to history, along 

with a garden that, let’s face it, any

dink could have planted. Anyone will do

when anything does. Nothing is too good.

I have saved five black and amber tails in

a glass jar with a tight lid. This is my

reward. The tight lid is overkill. I

know they cannot escape. The tigers were

eaten up long ago, swallowed whole in

a moment of triumph. You had better 

believe me. I have their ends to prove it.

I do not have to prove anything else,

not strength, not honour. Not now, but someday 

I will open the jar and release them, 

scattering rinds of blood and fur upon 

better earth than this, sprouting a new crop, 

worthy prey. Keep your innocent tulips,

wayward hyacinths. New days are coming.

Good Queen Arbitrary

From sound sleep I am wakened again. Go

away. Ungracious as ever. A kick

in her direction, a tumult of sheets

and comforter. Good Queen Arbitrary 

Forgiveness and Utter Hypocrisy 

is back. Her name seems longer than ever.

Hypocrisy is new, I say. When did 

that happen? Epiphanies are rare these

days. She spreads her arms heavenward. Better

to admit to hypocrisy than to

aim for honesty, she says. Her logic

is too much for me at this time of night. 

She offers me the three wishes. Same as

before, please. The usual successes, 

thank you. She is begged for things less bold than 

this. None of it should matter, but it does.

I am ready to tell my old self there 

is more to revenge than getting even. 

I think it is inherent to success.

It is what we desire if we are too 

slow or too late to deter or compete. 

Crazy Little Thing Called Lurve

We are bad! shout the shiny things. Bad and

everywhere! We are at the back of your 

desk. We are between the pages of that 

ponderous book that you pretend to read,

casually, at an outdoor café. 

We are even in the shower. My great

big new show-and-tell shiny thing is a 

stolen kiss. I cannot stop thinking of 

it. I drift to sleep with it. It follows 

me through dreams and nightmares and all kinds of

hypnagogic stuff and then pries open

the window – I guess it was cheerful in 

its day – A beautiful morning, this! it 

hollers, before I am ready to brace 

myself against it. I cannot find a 

way to stop. Better the devil you know, 

says the shiny thing, Than the one you don’t.

Innocent Enough

She looks innocent enough. Sometimes the

regulars give her space to seat her tail 

comfortably, but she never asks for

favours, just the same thing each week: coffee 

stirred into hot chocolate to keep her 

disposition sweet. I will never hurt 

you, she promises. Why not? we might ask, 

though we should never ask such things, of her,

of anyone. The way she drains a cup, 

swift and sure, is answer enough. You know

how I got here, she says, her voice lowered,

as we might find it extraordinary 

to see a tiger in an almost French 

café. We may have heard the rumours. She

tore the rivers out of his landscape and

ripped holes in his history, they say. If 

it is true, we must tread lightly, offer

her a gâteau basque and repeat nothing.

Little Love Poem

I love you and it is limitless he 

said. That night she ate dark chocolate, one

piece after another, delicious. I 

love you more than that, he said. He took the

last piece for himself and kissed it to her. 

She tasted love alright (the limitless

kind), dark roast coffee, the Sunday paper 

and undertones, lovely undertones: notes 

of floral this and that, cashmere and spice.

He must mean it, she thought and let herself 

be pulled in. You have changed me, he explained.

Stupid

The poor thing, said the daughter of Mary 

Margaret. How could you give a cat a 

name like that? Mary Margaret had no 

pity. Look at it, she said. She beckoned,

but Stupid did not move from the centre 

of the road. It stood there unblinking.You 

see? How could I name it anything else?

That was the summer Mary Margaret 

had a stroke and never spoke again. But

she sings, said the daughter, when family

came calling. She remembers every

song she learned from her school days. I’ll put the

kettle on. We’ll have tea and sandwiches.

Mary Margaret, sing something for us.

I didn’t know she could sing like that, said

my father, between bites. No one did, said 

the daughter. A marvel, isn’t she? We 

listened and drank tea for awhile before 

heading back to the city. I’m told that

house is just four thousand dollars, said 

my father. We should buy it and move there.

That’s how much it costs to live anywhere

in the sticks, said my mother. There’s nothing

special about Mary Margaret’s house. 

It’s safer there, said my father, Except

I almost ran over her cat. It was 

right in the middle of the road. That’s

why she calls it Stupid, said my mother.

I slept on the ride home. I did not think

again of Mary Margaret except 

once, at a New Year’s party. I’ve been here 

before, I said, When I was a kid. Strange 

what we find familiar. They stood in the 

road, unblinking, the pair of them, one as 

defiant as the other. Come, Stupid.

My Very Practically Perfect Universe

The moth holes in my favourite sweater 

are not holes at all. They are portals to 

a universe I like better than this 

one. I am invited to push past the 

gnaw (that supports nothing, let alone life) 

finger by finger until its vortex 

hauls me all the way in. I will show you

my new planets and stuff, taking pen to 

paper: O halcyon days! Things are calm. 

I have peace of mind and all the sweets I

can eat. I will try to see God better

from here. Nothing hurts. No more good enough, 

bad enough, enough enough. No holy

joes to tell me what I must make of it.

Everything You've Done Wrong

I didn’t know it would be this easy.

All it took was a jam jar containing

all the woes of the world. He shook the jar.

It’s really worldly? he asked. Nothing left

out? Naw, I said. It’s all there. Everything 

you can think of. Everything done to me.

And everything I did back. The horror. 

(The horror I’ll never find out about, 

you mean, he said, but he took it in stride.)

I deserve this? he asked. You don’t have to 

open the jar, I said. You don’t have to 

read the label. If you do, remember:

You’ll pay penance for everything gone wrong, 

past, present and future. It’s a gift. It’s 

a secret between us and only us.

Here, I accept, he said. Anything that 

makes you happy. Anything to oblige. 

I should have thought of this ages ago.

Light heAded

Her neighbour warns her he will not work at

things like this. She sees waves of colour and 

pain and methylene chloride. The cocktail 

she stirs on the window-frames is making 

the room float up in colours she does not 

recognise. They could be twenty years past, 

these colours, or seventy, or five weeks. 

By now her head is beginning to pound.

She is not yet witty or urbane but 

she will put down the old toothbrush and the 

fumes and slip into a pretty dress. You 

see, says her neighbour, all you have to do 

is stop trying so hard to be happy.

Wicked to the Bone

She has been wicked as long as she can

remember. Mother had told her, Hush that

fishwife voice! Nobody likes that! and gave

her a swat. She should have hung her head, but

she was asked to be quiet, not sweet. When

mother looked away, she made a face and

went on being as wicked as she pleased.

She made the same face years later. This guy

we’ll call Buddy told her the reason he

hurt her was that she was too quiet and not

sweet enough. That’s two reasons, she said, 

softly. She picked up his couch and threw it 

out the door, where it smashed into bits. You’re

wicked, said Buddy. Wicked and crazy.

She met a lady who was as quiet 

as she, and told the lady all manner

of wicked things. Pour me a drink, said the

lady. Let me tell you a thing or two. 

It’s good and well to be quiet, and if 

sweetness is your nature, so be it. But

make no mistake – you’re wicked to the bone.

Wicked to the bone! She liked that phrase and

whispered it to her giddy, wicked self

so quietly you couldn’t quite hear. One 

look at her though, at those glinty eyes, the 

almost-sweet smile – and you’d know. No remorse. 

Yeah, wicked to the bone. I like the sound 

of that, she says. You don’t want to argue.

Hopelessly Violet

Amanda cannot see straight any

more, not even after several 

cups of coffee. She has learned to see

other things, to be unimpressed by 

detail, to think the world looks better 

without edges. People have never 

been so easy on her eyes. Out of

cellophane and food colouring she 

makes a pair of contact lenses. She

is teaching herself vision as an

art. The lenses are purple and it 

feels funny to see everything in

a violet light. It is better, though,

than seeing through blue or crystal clear, 

either of which would be so sad that 

her heart would finish breaking and fall

apart somewhere inside her. If that

should happen, says Amanda to her

best friend, Please explain to everyone 

what happened. I loved you all deeply.

Amanda’s best friend is horrified 

that after all, it is something so 

simple as a heartbreaking blue (or

crystal clear) contact lens that could end 

everything. She understands life is 

fragile, but this is ridiculous. 

She is not the pious type, but she 

drops to her knees when Amanda walks 

up with those purple eyes: Heavenly 

Father forgive us our sins, bless us 

and protect us. Please keep us safe from

lies and colour and heartbreak. She points

out to Amanda the crocuses 

that have begun to bloom along the

hillside next to her house. Thank goodness 

they are purple this year. She picks a

handful for Amanda and reminds 

her they will be followed by lilacs.

Road Trip With Miss Kahlo

Frida is driving first. She likes to tell 

people it takes her longer to get to 

anyplace because her license is new 

and she is still learning how to get there. 

Most of the time they do not get the joke. 

Frida has been dog-tired of riding 

buses. I am not the kind to ride a 

bus, but at the same time I can picture 

us sitting side by side, knitting, planning 

the evening’s cocktails. With mint, I would say.

When it is my turn, I meander. As

explorers, we do not get lost. There is 

no such thing as a mistake or a wrong 

turn. I pull over when I find a patch 

of mint growing by the side of the road.

I claim it to make tonight’s mojitos. 

A woman drives by, slowly, as I pick

the mint. At first I think it is Frida’s

double. The coolness, almost indifference 

of her gaze is inherently Frida.

But this woman is lifeless, sparkless of

eye, the kind Frida watches as she plaits 

flowers in her hair and shrugs. Chick spends more

time dressing for things than actually 

doing them, she says, as we drive away.

Mengues' Cat

The Japanese tiger in the vitrine 

next to my bed growls when I make mistakes. 

Early, late, it makes no difference. Big

mistakes, small mistakes, it does not matter.

Last night I hear a low ghrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr and switch on

the light. It is three in the morning. I

am wearied of this. “You do not learn your 

lessons easily,” says the tiger. I 

sigh, squinting at it in the suddenly

too-bright room. For such a small tiger, it

is garish and noisy. “Are you blind?” it 

asks. “Just the opposite,” I reply. “I 

want a good look at you, since you haunt me 

almost every day. I have not even 

looked to see if you have a tail or not.” 

It glares at me. No words pass between us.

“I am not surprised,” says the tiger, at 

last. “You do not notice details. You are 

easily fooled. Even at this late hour.”

I am offended. I tell the tiger 

I am not the same person I was when 

it saw me last. I have changed. I have been 

on Sinbad’s voyage, I tell it. It squints

back at me. “No,” it says. “You are foolish.”

Easter Sunday

He is tired, he says, yawning goodnight, but 

he is not tired. He lets it ring once, hangs

up and walks out coatless, though at Easter,

with wind like this, it is downright cold. He 

feels hot enough after the signal. When 

he gets there, he sees the light in the room 

where he soon will be. He wonders how 

long he dares stay.The light is on for ten 

minutes, then the house goes dark. He smiles. She

is a smart one, a cautious one. He waits

another ten minutes, twenty minutes.

He gets cold, stamps his feet. No damn woman

he has known has had any sense of time. 

After two hours she still does not come 

out. He heads back home. It is too late to 

call again. Maybe he should have stayed on 

the phone, maybe this is a mistake. The 

next day, he finds her on the church steps. Last 

night, he asks, slowly. Oh, she says, putting 

on her flowered garden gloves, I heard you. 

I just couldn’t get away. Oh Lord, he 

says, Please, don’t repent. Nothing’s worse than that.

She Is A Shambles

She is a shambles. Two coffees will do

that to you. Do not tell me what you put 

in them, she tells him at the coffee shop.

Just give them to me. The sugar alone 

makes her giddy, but that is what she needs.

He has switched to tea. We do not need tea,

the way we sink to our knees for coffee,

she says. We take tea. We take it on the

front porch, cordially, and if he knew 

what crumpets were, she would take them with it.

It is an addiction, he knows, and the

thrill of being indulged that makes her say

these audacious things. He wants her to say 

“take tea” again in her sugar-high voice. 

Everything she says sounds like a craving.

The Civil War Is Now

The Civil War is now.

Each province, every state. 

I say O my charming

opponent. Drop your gloves.

I am in this for real,

I am in this to the

death. I am serious.

Do not misunderstand.

Drop them with me, he says. 

Put down your arms and take

my hand. We will make a 

waltz of this and mess the

others up. It will be

civil war on a grand 

scale. The time of our lives.

Barbecue Sauce

Among other things: vinegar, 

whatever honey is left in 

the squeeze bear, ketchup, ground pepper, 

tabasco, mixed Montreal spice, 

brown sugar. Once things are mixed well

(I advised Mr. to buy a

mortar and pestle, one of the

basics I insisted upon 

in New Life) the sauce is tasted 

and I am happy when he licks 

his fingers a second time and 

says Yes, brilliant. You came through.

He asks if I would like to go 

out later to the part of town 

where artists live. We can dress up, 

he says. Nineteen twenties. We’ll have

pretend champagne. We can go hand 

in hand to the old cemetery, 

where the civil war soldiers are 

buried. I’ll bring a blanket, and.

He wants to make specialness. I 

fall for it because I want to.

The Right Cocktail

On their way home, it happens, and when it 

happens, it happens seamlessly. He sniffs 

the air for her new scent. He can tell the

difference. The truth is, everything is 

different. She has not become someone

beautiful, a stranger, or Colette, or

Audrey Hepburn. There is not enough of

her to do that. The new someone is half 

woman, half assortment of feral beasts, 

the eyes of a cat and tylenol. Her

new heart is as fast as a hummingbird’s. 

He may not notice at first. The cat eyes

catch his and pin him. The hurried little 

bird heart beats loud enough for him to hear 

from across the room. He is whipped by the

tail of one feral thing or another. 

She downs a couple of tylenols and 

watches. It will be a long night ahead. 

She has become, at last, the right cocktail.

Sum of Its Parts

I bring Mr. S a bag full of rat

parts and silver wire. We open the

bag before supper and spread everything

onto the floor. I forget about the 

couple across the street, whom I saw this

afternoon pledging undying love (he 

was on bended knee and all). The things you 

see when you just sit quiet on your front

porch, I think. Say what? Mr. S asks. I

was just thinking, I say aloud, this time.

There is a first for everything. I saw 

the first pledge about five years ago, the

two of them gazing into each other’s 

eyes at the end of the dinner table, 

her face cupped in his hands. And he made a 

wish in front of everyone: I wish for 

us always to be as in love as we 

are tonight. That’s lovely, I said to her

afterward. Isn’t it, she smiled, adding,

But things are never as they seem, are they?

I will forget this soon enough. I have 

a habit of forgetting everything. 

I watch Mr. S light the grill. I bring 

the rat parts and tools to the patio. 

He pencils an X on each head and tail 

and finds a fine bit. I drill delicate 

holes in the ears while he loads the grill with 

steaks and sweet potatoes. I have never

made art before supper before, declares 

Mr. S. Another first, I reply.

That Yard Sale Smell

Robert’s couch has a secret. Robert’s couch

hates him. Robert tries to be friendly, but

the couch thinks him disingenuous and

it steals his spare change as often as it 

can. Robert is too stupid to know this.

Stupid, shifty, shiftless. The couch wishes

it had a head it could shake, with contempt.

The official story goes like this: the 

couch sees nothing. Repeat after me! says

Robert. Nothing to see here! says the couch 

in the most dutiful monotone it 

can muster. Truthfully, no one here sees

anything anyway, except the front

door and perhaps the carpet, but from a 

distance, and who cares? The couch thinks he is 

grandstanding. The door is right. If he is

guilty of anything, it is slumming.

The bed may not have much choice, but it has 

better taste and snickers when it hears wet

snivels and boo hoos that Robert forces

on it in the night. How can you stand it?

The bed shrugs. A drag, thinks the couch. It should 

be a lawyer, not this overstuffed stale

pink monstrosity with a yard sale smell.

My Recalcitrant Snowdrops

My recalcitrant snowdrops bend toward

Schubert (or perhaps the oatmeal cookies

baked with cinnamon and brown sugar that

Schubert surely favoured). They are still warm.

Invisible

The first time it happened, right under their 

noses, she rolled beneath the couch and lay 

still for hours until The Tonight Show. At

last, one of them cried in panic brief though 

real: “Where’s the child?” She emerged to scolding,

tears. But just like that, she had a secret. 

She said aloud: I am invisible.

In college, some studied art or concept. 

She studied both the art and concept of 

plain sight. How invisible was she, could 

she be? After class, she stayed at her desk 

and faded: toes first, then feet, fingers, arms,

ponytail, and finally, everything

else. Students came and went and saw nothing.

It is true then, she said. The first time had

been a thrill. The second, an art. The third

would be the last. There was a party, the

kind with gossip and beer. She sat alone

and did not bother to observe. Oh, he

said, afterwards. Well. I didn’t even

see you. He was neither thrilled nor amused.

She was puzzled. Invisibility 

had not turned her into art after all.

She did not exist unless conjured, a 

magic trick. She figured she was supposed 

to have been ashamed, not invisible.

She remembered the smell of the wooden 

floor from under the couch for the first time.

Camouflage

Amanda says I will need more than a 

pith helmet and a canteen if we are 

serious about hunting for tigers. 

The idea is to let them think they 

are the ones hunting you. Then you turn the 

tables. Plunge the knife in. Game over. She 

sees the lines running down my body and

her voice gentles. There has been hardship. “Are 

you sure you want to do this again?” she 

asks. “I lost an arm,” I remind her. This

is only proper. “It will regrow,” she

reminds me back. “I see it already.” 

I pull away and tell her it might as

well be a leg or a claw or someone 

else’s arm. I do not want to discuss 

it. Amanda leans in for a closer 

look. “Stripes,” she says. Camouflage is even

better than hunting. She sharpens her knife.

You Are A Bad Woman

You are a bad woman, she says to the

mirror. How dare you call yourself a muse. 

Then she reminds herself that muses are

not self-appointed. She has been chosen.

He can call the muse in room 502 

anytime, though she is at her best when 

she has coffeed and showered. That means he 

will wait until ten o’clock to rouse her.

She is already up when he calls. He

slips his voice in next to hers. Attentions,

he says, Affections. He wants her to reach

for him. He needs this more than he admits.

She stays away from the mirror. He picks

up a brush and paints her, right there in the

bathroom, one bold stroke and then another. 

It is too bold to be watercolour.

It is too swift to be acrylic or

oil. It is something of his invention,

or hers – is that not what being a muse

is all about? He cannot get enough.

“I hate it when people drop in,” she says.

“I’m never dressed and I never have more 

than coffee and stale cookies.” She laughs, he 

does not. There are muses everywhere, here.

All you do is open your eyes to them. 

When he opens his eyes all he sees is

room 502. Asleep, awake, his muse

waits for him there with a brush and those paints.

Anger

Her anger isn’t the quick, simmering,

or scowling kind, but the hard kind, the kind 

that’s like facing a sharp west wind and is 

full of surprise (in her life surprises 

are always nasty) followed by prickles 

of fear (if this now, what’s next?) then the seep 

of nausea. It’s familiar to her now,

rage strong enough to shake her to her knees

even before she opens the door. It

doesn’t matter who it is anymore.

She’ll still see him sitting in her armchair 

under an ornately-framed poster, one 

he’d hung years ago, insisting it was 

a painting of Degas. (“He was even 

in court fighting his wife for possession 

of the thing,” she wants to say, when she thinks 

about someone asking her about it.) 

He’d been pleased, at the time, that the poster, 

ballerinas posed upon a stage of 

avocado green and harvest gold, had 

matched the chair he’d chosen to match the rug.

Anger will win if she has thoughts like this.

She’ll have instead the echo of footsteps, 

the sound of snow crunching underfoot, 

a car door slamming, engine, then quiet.

Mapmaking

The new lands I discovered have no maps.

On top of everything else, I will learn 

to be a mapmaker. Our house I shall

mark as southernmost south. There will still be

room to go as far north or east or west

as I want or dare. The amenities 

are drawn as follows: The first Robert’s house. 

The second Robert’s house. The third Robert’s

house. The house of the third Robert’s disgrace.

I am with the fourth Robert, whose house I 

circle with a heart. I draw question marks 

for the fifth and sixth Roberts. His hand as

steady as a surgeon’s, the fourth Robert 

takes a pen and draws lines east and west and 

south from my chin, connecting arms, hips, knees 

and toes. The fourth Robert says he will not 

leave this house unless upon a gurney.

Early

Amanda doesn’t remember very

much these days, but she can tell you the day

the thing went up and stayed up for good, the

boxed wood and plastic-tufted tanenbaum

that needed protracted assembly, picked 

up on clearance at Eaton’s. She wanted 

the thing up and done up early, just in 

case. September first. She remembers that.

Christmas came as usual and nothing 

bad happened. It seemed right to Amanda 

that the thing was the reason. No one would 

dare wrest Christmas or anything else from 

her. She had the rules of the universe 

figured out, all before the age of twelve. 

A child prodigy, she says now, with a

wry smile. All it took was being early.

The first years were different. Early meant that

around the seventeenth of December, 

Amanda hauled the thing from the attic

and plied its branches with bells and stars and

silver teardrops while the others, amused 

if complicit, watched. The seventeenth turned

into the fifth the following year, then

November thirteenth, then October third.

Amanda thinks those dates are accurate.

The day she discovered the meaning of 

early, she learned the importance of good

stewardship, good history. She knows she

won’t live forever. She’ll remember to 

find someone determined, as defiant

as she, willing to risk all to put, say,

a gilt angel atop the thing, keep safe.

Fake Paris

Paris is not going to see me this spring.

Paris will open its blooms to other 

lovers’ arms. Paris is going to miss me.

Paris will not be the same. Its sadness

will not be celebrated and, well, I 

fear Paris has become ordinary

with an ordinary sadness, just like 

any city and it deserves better, 

just like me. You know, I should miss Paris

but if it is ordinary, I will 

not miss it one bit. You, I, we will have 

to pretend. We will flirt and squint so you

look dapper and I look young and we will

hit it off in an alternate city 

of lights, the kind you string up for Christmas

or birthdays. Our fake Paris will not laugh 

at us when we dance even though it has

seen a million like us and is not fooled.

Mr. X

In a year or so Mr. X 

will look like he’s stepped straight out of 

that Grant Wood, minus the pitchfork. 

She shouldn’t laugh. He’ll think it’s drink 

that makes her giggly. He’ll lick his 

lips should her glance catch his, fidget 

with his ring, not untruthful, at 

least not yet, not about this. The 

details, in ten seconds: ball and

chain (she winces) could care less (she 

winces again) but wants it with 

every guy on the block but him. 

And, he grins, as far as the block

goes, he stacks up good (a third wince). 

He says You know, you remind me

of a painting, and she nearly

snorts her drink through her nose. She may

as well laugh. She knows what comes next.

April 1

‘I hope my weeds do not forget 

me,’ said Miss Bloom. ‘Who wants to be 

forgettable, even to you? 

Cut my canes to the ground, as you 

would before winter. My only 

hope is to grow from there.’ She was

not angry (but everything looks 

like rage to me, I said under 

my breath, then I shut up fast so 

she would not see my smirk). ‘I have 

seen jadedness before,’ (I had 

a houseful of it, bottles drunk 

secretly like booze or poison – 

strong stuff) I said, then went into 

the yard after the cold and sawed 

off the canes that made her suffer.