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.