S. E. De Haven

Stuck to the platform you

used to use to write out

a check, a little plastic guy.

White robes. Fair skin.

Black hair and eyes and

beard.

Maybe an inch tall, arms

wide open. Friendly, featureless

(in a Funk-o Pop kinda way.)

Much of the black of his molded

hair and beard flaked off by

gentle hands, sweaty touches.

The son of God rendered in

plastic, glued to the check

writing counter, beside the

electric brick where I used my

credit card to buy a half gallon

of ice cream (gooey butter cake

flavored, seasonal) and nothing

else.

There he stands in the temple

of the moneychangers -- arms

wide open, eyes so black, bright,

Corpuscular leaves flung

from gnarled twigs into a

yellowed parchment sky.

Wind whipping wild,

pulling leaves, grass,

What secrets could I keep from you?

My body full of salt and water, blood

pulsing like your currents, bones like

reefs to keep me standing, breath

so warm and wet and tidal.

Fingernails like mother-of-pearl and

eyes the color of you after a storm --

there is too much of you in me.

I would tell you everything, everything,

Gold band, solitaire catching

sun and spitting rainbows,

tiny stone (her tears were

bigger).

She threw it into a field,

to keep the primroses

The rattle of heavy chain. Scent of it,

blood and iron, under the sweetness

of toasted tobacco, of spice and sweat

and drug store cologne. The thing

we came here to do is lolling in and

out, bobbing head like clover in the

wind. He looks up, face smeared with

blood and black grease. Blue eyes not

comprehending. The airboat rocks

underneath us as we pass the cigarette

around.

"For the girl," says the fat one, sending

a long brown stream of chew juice into

the bayou. "For your sister."

I watch them hoist him up. He's making

some noise under that silvery duct tape.

Not enough, though. Padre and the

fat man heave him overboard, and

he's gone. Swallowed up by the muck

and the water that has no memory.

They sit still for a minute. Finish the

cigarette, spit more streams of chew.

I watch the bubbles rise up, gemstones

in the dark.

It won't bring you back. I'll never hear

your throaty laugh again, or give you a

noogie or hug you tight enough to

squeeze the air out of both of us. But,

as the huge fan kicks on and the boat

lurches forward, I look at dad's army

buddies (near strangers to me before

your funeral) looming larger than

cypress trees in the milky moonlight --

I realize, we got one of them.

Stitching a dart through

the wet morning sky,

body like a sharp green

needle, veined wings

glowing like a church

window. Light on my

outstretched finger.

Rest, little friend.

The rain has passed,

studding the gravel road

with milky puddles for

you to skate across.

Sunlight burns the clouds

away and sparkles your

body, gleaming like wet

beryl, or green moissanite.

Opalescent eyes, garnet to

peridot. Bright wings

to shatter the light and

break fast between

Heavy cling of fur and wet dog smell,

tang of cat urine. It was a working day,

first Monday after caps and gowns,

hullabaloo, pomp and circumstance.

College glowing false dawn in the

distance of three months, hip deep

in kitten season.

Parvovirus was brutal that year.

My pale hands reaching out for a

handful of warm pug, or lantern-eyed

manx, breathing the scent of fear,

and the sweet mustiness of sickness.

The rumble whir of the autoclave

(that I will finally be able to use

next month, when I turn 18)

thrums like evening cicadas over

Martina McBride. Tomorrow is

spay day, so I'll spend the afternoon

stacking scalpel holders, blades,

curved needles, suture on sterile

blue towels. Tucking them in and

taping it all with masking tape.

But now, I clean the cages, lifting

furry bundles, spinning across faded

tiles in the sugary-acrid scent of

veterinary cleanser. Fifty stuttery

barks every minute cannot drown

out a singer hoping, that in my

star-bright future, I'll find freedom,

A balloon, slowly

deflating, bumbling

across brown grass,

broken concrete,

cracked beer bottles.

No lift (no light touch

to set it right) it lands

in a puddle. Mud and

Milky sun flowing over

nubbly berries, blushing

pink under gleaming

leaves of wet beryl green.

A million kisses of brush

to canvas. A painting so

real it smells, faintly,

of fresh pear. Of litchi.

Wet velvet petals, tongue-like,

rasping the night air with kitten

eagerness, blushing crimson tips

on starlight white, heavy breath

scenting the night. Moon dipped

blooms turning their faces up

through leaves gleaming and

waxy as wet emeralds. In the

night, soft-skinned petals look

lipsticked and kissable. Silk that

invites lips and fingers and

tongues. Yielding under the

breeze, the flick of a fingernail.

Perfume so thick, so heady.

A beauty that invites tearing

fingers, sharp teeth, and a

wet, consuming mouth.

Just mind the thorns. Mind the

Four guitar picks, one split diagonal

across the face of an acid green

cartoon frog. One crumpled dollar

bill, two quarters, a nickel, and

a penny (mine now, thanks for the

tip.) A smashed pack of Camels,

two cigarettes still inside, powdered

by whatever force crumpled the

white box, the cellophane. In a

separate pocket, not in the mangled

cigarette pack, three roaches smoked

to the last centimeter (just running

loose in your pocket? Why?) And one

half-smoked joint, smudged with purple

lipstick, and coral. Not yours. Duh.

A scrap of college-ruled paper with

two phone numbers written on it.

(I don't know either of them.) One

has a heart next to it. The other is

written in your jittery hand, blue

ink. A receipt from Taco Bell, bleached.

You had two beef burritos and a taco.

Maybe a drink? Probably. It's so

faint. A ghost of a meal. One of Papa's

old business cards, not sure where

you got that. He's been dead four years,

now. Another nickel. And one last

guitar pick, neon yellow, stained from

Open petals spreading as nebulae,

star-white blossoms drizzling from

crepe myrtles, studding the muddy

paving stones. The Milky Way,

blooming.

The scalloped clouds, whispy and

ragged at the ends, a great expanse

of blushing gold, soft peony pink

to bolder carnation below blazing

coral, and the orange-yellow of

friendship roses. The light is

pink lemonade, splashing my skin.

Limning the emerald leaves of

jasmine, and leafing the flowers

Watching rain bead and spill

like glass (like quartz) marbles,

rolling down brown jasmine

vine, dripping from the points

of wet emerald leaves. The

weak, milky sun shining

through the tangle, through

the pachinko fall of rain,

shattering into winking

rainbows, dazzling the

A lump in the throat, an idea

(poorly chewed and half-swallowed)

stuck, squatting like a toad. Maybe,

it will slide down to settle, like

warm bread, a thought to sustain

me. A soft belch, a contented sigh.

But maybe, I'll choke it up, spray it

in crooked letters across the page.

State at this mess I made, seeking

the lump, the grit in the oyster,

what sliver of light or turn of phrase

stuck in my craw until I horked

Soft glow corona, unfurled,

trailing soft, curling wisps.

Drifting like smoke on currents

unseen and barely felt.

Open as an umbrella, pulsing

salt water and translucent

flesh, dancing inches under

Love is just a horror show, fire and blood.

Zombies. Swarms. So, don't ever think

you'll make it out alive. You can beat

the starving vampire, but who cares?

You're a snack, your heart's blood for

a parasite. You deserve this for falling

into an open volcano, lust mistaken for

something deeper. Throw caution

(unwary) into a dark basement alone, or

look for a way to bring love down,

only to have it rear up, twice as strong.

You cannot kill it. You cut it down,

and it eats you from the feet up.

You are the final girl. Love wants you,

every kiss is leading to the juicy climax.