Amnesia

She awoke suddenly, as if startled by a shriek or howl, but the room was still. Her fingers were clenching the crib’s bars and her torso was draped over one side, leaning awkwardly toward the mess of blankets in the middle. As she unwound backward, the recirculating blood set off tingling pins in her upper half and her head swept with dizziness. She grabbed the top rail for support, but her fingers were numb, not her own. Disconnected, in vertigo, the room swam horizontally for a few revolutions until she collapsed. She closed her eyes to stop the movements, but the black mass behind her eyes whirled dimly. Warm hands cupped her cheeks, stroked her forehead.

“Srenda, dear, are you all right?” She recognized her husband’s hushed voice and spoke back to him across the dark void.

“Troy? Our baby’s gone! Where is he? Did someone take my baby boy?” She heard a sharp intake of breath, a vacuum sucking her attention toward it. The fingers loosened their grip momentarily, then molded around the base of her skull.

“Oh, Srenda, don’t you remember? Our boy was so sick...too sick, in fact. Our good doctors, they took him away while we were in the hospital. Sent him to a good place to make him feel better, to end his pain.” Srenda released a sigh. She felt the corners of her mouth draw upward slightly, her mind relaxing.

Troy’s voice softened further in response. “We couldn't have given him a proper life, understand? Not in our home nor anywhere in our community. And the world outside this tight-knit haven is toxic, unlivable for the sick. We did the right thing. I work so hard to make our home safe for you and our beautiful daughter.”

“Zenobia?”

“Yes. Don’t forget her, darling. We can always make another little boy. We still have one vacant spot in our family. In fact, our leaders are encouraging it. Two for every household. Two healthy babies to continue the bloodline. So don’t worry yourself, dear. The doctors took care of him. He’s not our problem, anymore. We’ll make a new little boy soon. A perfect boy. You’ll see.”

“Oh, thank heavens, Troy! The doctors are keeping him safe. Can I visit him once he’s better? I’d so like that...”

“NO! Wait...” Troy’s voice faded away and his embraced evaporated. She was once again floating blind in the murky ether, but this time severed from her physical self.

…

Compulsion

A hollow house shifts

in the darkening hour

but no dust particles sift

sheer as stockings over-

night when the arthritic

ceilings shift, s t r e t c h i n g

swollen joints enflamed

with weighty humidity.

It silently vacuums

all sound, muffles

creaking boards, wind

slipping through cracks,

but misses

 the swoosh,

swoosh,

swoosh,

as a moistened rag rides

grooved tiles, dampens

counters and corners,

but collects no crumbs.

This rag longs to absorb

spilled sauces, squeeze

between cracks, lick grime

and grout, erase mildew

and rust,

shine,

                shine,

scrub,

scrub,

stain,

                stain,

but only slides

across unblemished

surfaces, circling

a set course staged by a raw,

chaffed hand, blistered

from battling entropy.

One Sign of Summer

My ear filaments prickle, catching

faintly audible tremors,

growing more distinct as its source

crawls closer, sending out

a whimsical rendition of ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’.

Minutes slide by, counted

in jingling coins scooped

from under cushions,

hands double-dipping

into chairs and couches,

foggy breaths against

latched casements

that blur the little bouncing figures flinging

themselves to the barren asphalt.

A singsong melody blares forth

from a mechanical megaphone

and the tune circles round, gaining

momentum,

tightly

winding

like

a

jack-

in-

the-

box.

I linger, expecting

a climax, but the crescendo barrels back

to begin the melody once again.

Norma Desmond on Sunset Boulevard

-After Victoria Chang’s “Eva Braun at Berchtesgaden”

 

His body bobs facedown

atop an underlit pool.

The assassin

retreats. The sirens sound

shrill: accents

wail and whir. Her gauzy

gown flows past silent-film

memorabilia, framing coiffed

curls, wrinkled lips stained

rouge.

Then herds of hurried heels

enter and divide, half

upstairs, half to the foyer filling with tendrils

of burnt tobacco. All evening

trench coats interrogate the starlet,

clicking cameras, wafts

of eau de parfum, puffing

powder. Then a coerced descent

down her spiral staircase, faux fans loitering

silently as she saunters

past, back arched, left arm outstretched,

eyes widened for her final close-up.

Migration

Once the cosmonauts blast off
and the diehards crawl

into fortified bunkers, there
follows a live lottery, but no one

flees to mountain dugouts or border lands this time.
Instead, civilians perch curbside, curl

and crouch on couches. Strung out and jittery,
they tap feet, twitch legs, strum digits

amidst puffing smoke that drifts
past flickering blue shadows

formed by stiff announcers who statically
spew statistics laced with strangers’ names.

Others hunch over chipped
concrete counters, grooved tables,

each fiddling with dials to catch the clearest channel.
The millions leftover linger, stomachs

wrenched, hands rung, brows furrowed,
sharing a collective uncertainty.

Miles from nowhere in a dim barn,
a little hand tugs her father’s faded overalls

and asks him the solitary question plaguing the masses:
Who gets to go to the moon?

Maker's Mark

I discharge one ounce
and the caramel liquid jeers,
now a stiff cohort slighted
by the glass chamber’s clarity.

Its presence recalls historic romps,
jostling on galloping steeds,
hasty uncorkings pressed to pallid lips,
gulped feverishly
then splashed
like surfeit holy water
on festering flesh,
a makeshift antiseptic.

I absorb dissolved
memories, tip back the vessel,
then shoot.
The hot infusion funnels
into my mouth,
but I constrict my throat until the last drop,
inhaling seared wood, slivers
of oak casks,
before swallowing the fiery dose.

The liquid trickles downward
coating my innards,
while the absorbed chemicals swell
upward, treading
below skin’s surface,
emblazoning my cheeks.

More Human than Human: A Binary Life

“Folks, now that you have heard my story, Say, boy, hand me another shot of that booze; If anyone should ask you, Tell 'em I've got those St. James Infirmary blues”.

A mint gramophone played softly and squarely, humming the blues for Brian who, crouched beneath table light, attended to polishing his leather loafers with great care. Hands sweeping back and forth, mechanically rubbing the oil into every groove, he stole a glance at the Rolex gleaming on his wrist.

"Almost time for the evening news." He placed his loafers on the Oriental rug, next to his eccentric collection of nine irons, their necks ascending gracefully from their bag, falling in crooked shadows across his kept bed. Brian stretched, glowing with a sense of achievement, oblivious to the entrance of a portly, pink woman striding into his chamber with intent to disturb his blissful solitude.

"Dinner's in five minutes. Better finish up." Her monumental nametag reflected in the lamplight: Bethany, Orderly.

She pursed her peach lips, trying to stifle the slight grin forming around her plump cheeks, but even in her most beguiling of moments she rarely concealed the devious spark of wit in her eyes. She knew how much he loathed intrusion while ritually tending to his possessions, but it gave her a delightfully powerful feeling to hinder this one. Aching with annoyance, Brian grumbled into his lap, ignoring her ample, looming figure. Satisfied, she pivoted quickly, rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum. Glancing up, he caught her sashaying into the corridor, her well-endowed figure jiggling away.