Whiskey + Wine
I don't know why I eat the glass.
The sharp, painful daggers that
I grind to shreds and swallow
into sand that slides down my throat.
Each shiny sliver,
crunched down bit by bit.
Savoring the most succulent,
consuming, painful bite.
Invading me all the way down,
fragments stuck in the grooves of my teeth,
in the lining of my small intestine.
A memory digested.
Wine glasses are delicious
But I'm a whiskey drinker.
The New World
Awaking in a world you never knew,
to games you never played,
to trinkets you never understood—
Her crochet needle becomes a drum stick on the kitchen table.
The hand beside you, once painted and smooth,
now wrinkled and cracked, begs
to be saved from puzzling conversations,
assurance that you too, are a foreigner.
Her snapped, wooden racquet hides deep behind the fur coats.
Moments, once fresh and lively,
hang wilted behind heavy mahogany frames,
trapped as memory.
Her photo albums, filled with strangers, collect dust.
You watch the two-dimensional news anchors announce
an unending war— a war you thought you fought to stop the fighting.
She thinks sheʼs seen this ball game before.
Gadgets, too many to comprehend,
fill the spots of static radios,
cassette players and landlines,
once new, now antique.
Her stack of the same Sinatra CDʼs grows taller.
Day by day, morning to evening,
a carton of blueberries, a can of tuna,
a frozen turkey burger.
Her stock of spoiled skim milk fills up the Frigidaire.
Turning in your makeshift bed,
you reach for your bronze pocket watch,
reading the time when she used to stand at the sink,
and you realize—
As the dishes pile up—
This is your new world.
Et cetera
“Sounds like a bumblebee buzzing around,” he says
as the helicopter cuts through the sky,
blowing the tips of the tall forest pine,
ripe with the buds of spring.
His worn, cracked hands, no longer
budding with life like the hands extending from the trees,
swat at the imaginary bee buzzing by
as the chopper clears the air.
Eyes closed, he breathes.
What is he thinking?
Of the years he too was in the air?
Flying above the clouds—jumping into them...
The treesʼ deep cracks speak of splintering bones,
jagged happiness, long hours at the cap factory—
and acquired wisdom.
Sinatra—Bieber—
a portable radio and an iPod—
a pad of crinkled paper and a computer—
Brittle branches and tiny twigs intertwine
at the heart of a box of crayons,
drawing.
“One tree” he says,
as the green crayon shakes to make contact
with the page once more—
“Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,” the
crayon reads.
“Thereʼs a tree there like that, like that
and like that,” he explains as the
paper rustles and his eyes close once more,
replacing the green and yellow landscape
with darkness.
Et cetera, Et cetera, Et cetera.
And the trees crack
and bloom.
Mister Bunny Jean
As the last lamp extinguished in the yellow house at the end of Pearl Street, only the faint sounds of the wind swirling a pile of leaves down the road and the light rain dripping into an empty can left outside by the neighborhood children could be heard. The houses were quiet and covered with a sheet of darkness with only a sliver of moonlight for comfort.
A large shadow grew on the fence of the yellow house as a black-leathered glove creaked open the side gate. There was a rattle—and a squeal—and all was quiet again.
The sun rose just as it did every morning. It peeked through the bites in the leaves that caterpillars had made and absorbed the droplets of morning dew puddled on blades of grass. It soaked up the dampness left on the cotton sheets hanging on the clotheslines leftover from the rain of the previous night. As warmth filled the sky, a porch swing creaked with the gentle push of the morning air. Windows cracked open allowing the tings of cereal bowls, scrapes of waffle batter and hash browns, and the turning pages of morning newspapers to escape.
The metallic sound of Ms. Iraʼs pruning shears chirped as she snipped at her blooming sunflowers and magnolias outside her kitchen window. Ms. Ira whistled along with the birds as she bundled a few magnolia blossoms into a bouquet and inhaled the sweet scent of her gardening success when an ear-piercing scream rang out from the yellow house next door. Startled, Ms. Ira dropped her gardening shears and freshly-cut magnolias to the ground.
The white gate next door flew open and little Darlene Swilley ran out of her backyard flailing with an empty cage and a carrot in her hand. Her scream filled the trees and every nook and cranny of the street in a way that only a seven-year-old’s frantic cries could. The tinging, scraping, and page-turning had stopped.
Ms. Ira made her way over to the fence separating the Swilley home from hers. “Why Miss Darlene, what is all the fuss about this early in the morning? Youʼre bound to scare all the birds away with a voice like that.”
A petite face framed with wisps of straw colored hair, huge brown eyes, a button nose and pink pouting lips stared up at her. “M-m-m-mister Bunny Jean, heʼs gone! Bunny Jean is m-m-missinʼ. I gotta find him Ms. Ira! He didnʼt eat his dinner last night and heʼll be real hungry,” little Darlene blubbered as she clutched the empty cage and the barely nibbled carrot. The swollen, tearful little face looked up from behind the fence as Ms. Ira said, “Well letʼs not fret Miss Darlene. Iʼm sure Mister Buddy Jean will show up. Maybe you forgot to lock his cage or something.”
The swollen little face tightened. “Mister BUNNY Jean! I don’t remember leaving his cage unlocked,” Darlene mustered as she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her polka-dot patterned sundress and looked over to the small pen of Mister Bunny Jeanʻs disappearance. Ms. Ira tried to explain as she handed Darlene her handkerchief, “Well darling, sometimes we forget things. Maybe you forgot to put Mister Bunny Jeanʼs latch on or forgot to put him in his cage last night.”
Ms. Ira had said the exact wrong thing.
“I did not! And heʼs never run away, he just wouldnʼt do it. I told him we were going to the county fair tomorrow and he was excited ʻcause heʼs never been. He was just too excited to run away. Puhlease help me Ms. Ira, puhlease!”
Ms. Ira sighed as she thought of the ever-growing grocery list sitting on her kitchen counter and stared back at the pool of water tearing out of the big brown eyes in front of her. She was about to respond when a young woman with curly brown hair opened the screen door of the Swilley home quickly trying to tie her green paisley-printed apron as she went. “Oh Ms. Ira, gosh, I am so sorry,” the woman in the green apron began, “I hope my little Darlene didn’t disturb you. I was in the middle of fixing breakfast when I heard Darlene screaming.”
“Not at all, Ms. Nancy, I was just hoping I could help Miss Darlene find her bunny rabbit,” Ms. Ira replied.
“Iʼm sure heʼll show up,” Ms. Nancy said, “I reckon the little fella just went for a stroll in the woods, isnʼt that right Ms. Ira?”
“What?” Slow to the punch, Ms. Ira recovered, “Ah, why yes, I once had a cat who had a craving for some good old-fashioned bird huntinʼ and plum forgot what time it was on account of that he was having too much fun.”
“See Darlene honey, everything will be fine. Letʼs just go inside and mama will serve you a nice big breakfast,” Darleneʼs mother coaxed her daughter back inside.
Saddened by her little neighborʼs distress, Ms. Ira picked up her gardening shears and sighed. Her magnolia bouquet was scattered in petals throughout the garden. Deciding it was just not her day for gardening, Ms. Ira settled on distracting herself by setting out on her daily errands. She washed up, slipped into her red sundress, and put on her white brimmed hat and her white lace gloves. Ms. Ira planned to make her weekly supply of biscuits for Flannery Bakery today so she opened the cupboard to inventory her supply of ingredients.
Ms. Ira frowned. “C’mon Ira. I was sure that I filled a new sack of flour last week.”
Clumps of flour sat scattered on the shelf, which Ms. Ira lightly brushed off. “With gray hair comes clumsiness,” she muttered to herself. She looked on the lower shelf and shook the small can of baking soda, which also felt quite empty. Already needing milk, eggs, and sugar, Ms. Ira added to her list, “flour, baking soda, butter.” Ira frowned again. Above flour was written, “gravy ingredients,” but she didnʼt remember putting gravy on the list.
She usually preferred to sell apple butter with her morning biscuits but there were a lot of things she was forgetting these days. The thought of warm biscuits made her mouth water. Ms. Ira reached into her biscuit tin, but sighed realizing her personal stash of biscuits and butter was empty. She added apples to the list and reminded herself to stop at Flannery Bakery for a quick bite of one of her own apple butter biscuits.
About a half-hour later, Ms. Ira walked down to Main Street. On her way over to the market, Ms. Ira stopped to look at some porcelain tea cups in the window of Mitchellʼs Antiques when she ran into Nancy Swilley.
“Why hello, Ms. Nancy. Has Darlene calmed down a bit since this morning?” asked Ms Ira.
“Ah yes, she did a little,” Ms. Nancy hesitated, “apparently, little Cassidy down on Locust Street is missinʼ his rabbit too. The two of them are on a rabbit search and rescue as we speak. I did promise her Iʼd find her a special treat to go with her dinner though—and I thought your biscuits would be the perfect thing!” Ms. Nancy held up a paper bag from Flannery Bakery. “Oh! And before I forget—Darlene wanted me to return this to you.” Ms. Nancy opened her hand to reveal the silk handkerchief, still damp with Darleneʼs tears.
“Itʼs quite a nice handkerchief you got there and I didnʼt want my Darlene to ruin it.”
“Well, thank you, Ms. Nancy. Iʼll see you around.” Ira waved as she put her handkerchief back into her small handbag.
Ira focused her attention back on the tea cup in the window. It would look lovely on the mantel beside the magnolia-painted tea set that her late husband bought her years ago. After another moment of contemplation, Ms. Ira decided to splurge and buy the tea cup that she had been admiring. After a rough morning, Miss Ira thought, there is no harm in a little indulgence.
Ms. Ira emerged only a few moments later with a small parcel and consulted her list to see where she should head next: the salon! Thought she had just gotten her nails done a few days ago, they were already chipped and broken. After a manicure from Rosa Bella Beauty Salon, Ms. Ira headed over to Jocetteʼs Market where she purchased more biscuit supplies. Her stomach growled. All she needed now was some biscuits and apple butter. Trying not to spill her growing number of packages, Ms. Ira walked very slowly up Main Street as she headed over to Flanneryʼs.
The day was increasingly heating up and Ms. Ira was more than pleased to have her handkerchief back. Ms. Ira felt a bead of sweat begin to drip on her forehead. Without giving more sweat a chance to form, Ms. Ira swiftly retrieved her handkerchief from her dress pocket. She wiped her forehead and frowned. Thatʼs odd. She thought. I donʼt remember seeing this stain here earlier. Ms. Ira tried to wipe a reddish brown stain from her handkerchief, first with her freshly manicured nails, and then with a little dip of water from the fountain in the middle of the town square. But after no success, Ms. Ira assumed that Darlene had accidentally dropped it in the wet soil earlier.
As Ms. Ira opened the door to Flanneryʼs, the bell hanging on the side of the door jingled and Mister Conner appeared. “Why hello Ms. Ira! I wasnʼt expectinʻ to see you. Thought you’d be exhausted.“
“Well Mister Conner, what can I say? I am addicted to those darn delicious biscuits and butter made by that sweet old lady that you got working away back there,” Ms. Ira joked.
Mister Conner looked confused.
“Is somethinʼ the matter, Mister Conner?”
“Well no, Ms. Ira, I mean, obviously, youʼre welcome to as many of your biscuits and butter as you like. But seeing as itʼs your biscuits and gravy special that weʼre servinʼ up today—”
Ms. Ira froze. “Excuse me, Mister Conner, I must have misheard you, did you say a biscuits and gravy special?”
She moved closer to Mister Conner and saw that he was stirring a big pot of gravy on the stove top. “Yes maʼam! Now what did you think we were gonna do when you left us all those scrumptious biscuits and gravy last night? At first we were ready to call in the sheriff until we realized it was you! You gave us quite a fright sneakinʼ into the bakery like that but it was mighty worth it, maʼam. And that gravy? Mmm mm. I donʼt know what you put in there but that is the finest meat that I have ever tasted...”
Mister Conner kept on going but Miss Ira was already consumed in her own thoughts. She stared at the special on the board. In hot pink lettering, the sign read, “Miss Iraʼs Biscuits nʼ Gravy. Get ʻem while theyʼre hot!”
Miss Ira felt for the handkerchief in her bag and examined the brown stain more closely. It was all coming back to her now: the dark shadows, a creaking gate...
A snip,
a yelp,
the fur...
The fur.
Miss Ira gulped.
Mister Bunny Jean.
Tea Party Tuesdays
Faye Fitzpatrick adjusted the green ribbon attached to her curly ponytail and stretched to the tips of her toes to reach the doorknob of Floraʼs Tea Room. From the hostess stand, Emily waited patiently and expectedly at her post. A pair of bright green eyes popped up from below the stand.
“Why hello Miss Faye.” Emily said, greeting the young girl.
“Hello Emily. I am here to meet my friend, Maureen. I see her over there,” Faye said, her tiny figure now fully visible, as she pointed and marched over to a table for two.
Faye settled into a cozy chair, shaped like a giant tea cup and painted with purple flowers. She unfolded a white cloth napkin onto her lap.
“Enjoy, Miss Faye,” Emily said as she handed Faye a menu, smiled, and walked back to her station.
“Thanks!” Faye said, flashing a toothy grin.
Faye turned her body to face directly across the table.
“Hi Maureen! Long time, no see. So much has happened since last Tuesday!”
“Ha ha, yes it has. I am always excited to see you, Faye,” Maureen replied.
A waitress in a yellow pinstriped apron walked over, “What can I get for you?” she asked.
“Hi.” Faye said, pretending to read the menu with her pointer finger, which was adorned with a coral plastic jewel. “We will have two peppermint teas—with extra sugar—someone at this table doesnʼt have a achoired taste for tea yet... and two hot fudge ice cream sundaes.”
“Alright, anything else for you, Miss Faye?”
Fayeʼs face scrunched up in thought for a minute. The waitress waited patiently and smirked. Fayeʼs face lit up again as she exclaimed, “And Maureen says there should be a candle on account of itʼs a special occasion.”
The waitress winked, “Coming right up, Miss Faye.”
Turning back to the table, Faye gasped excitedly, “Sorry I lied. Mommy tells me itʼs bad to lie but I couldnʼt possibly order a candle for myself. Howʼs Lucy?!”
“Itʼs okay, Faye. Iʼm sure your mommy wouldnʼt mind this one time.”
Faye smiled in relief.
“And Lucy is fantastic, well, most of the time. Sheʼs been a little depressed lately because she loves playing fetch but thereʼs so much ice in the yard that sheʼs had to ice skate instead.”
Faye giggled. “I wish we could have a dog,” her expression dropping a little, “Daddy says that Henryʼs amoon system wouldnʼt like it.”
“Well, you can come play with Lucy any time. She gets bored of just having old-timers like me around,” Maureen said.
“Ok! Ohmygoodness, I love your earrings! Mommy gave me ones just like them to wear as soon as I am old enough to get my ears—ooh,” Faye gasped as the waitress placed a mountain of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream coated with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry in front of her.
The orange flame reflected in Fayeʼs green eyes as the waitress placed another tea cup and sundae in front of Maureen’s seat and began to sing, “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you...” Faye closed her eyes—took in a gulp of air—and right as she was about to blow out the candle, a draft of wind extinguished the flame.
Opening her eyes, Faye frowned as wisps of smoke drifted away from the extinguished candle. For a moment, Faye watched as the smoke drifted further and further away. Her bright eyes dimmed—just for a flash—before coming to life again. Faye plastered a smile on.
“Want the cherry? I usually give them to Henry, he loves them,” Faye said as she scooped the cherry off of her sundae and delicately placed it on top of Maureen’s sundae.
Faye’s shiny, leather cowboy boots clinked together under the table. “Mommy says heʼll be home from testing on Sunday so maybe Iʼll bring him here, if it’s my birthday, it’s his birthday too, you know.” She stretched her arms to reach the tea cup in front of her, took a sip, and tried not to shudder at the bitterness. As she pushed the cup aside and dug into her sundae, Faye said, “A little too sharp today, donʼt you think?”
From the hostess stand, Emily watched affectionately as Faye giggled and gobbled up heaping spoonfuls of ice cream. Across the table, the last few traces of steam escaped from the cooled peppermint tea as the two cherries sunk deeper into a pool of melted ice cream, untouched.