Butterscotch Castle

"Does it involve someone taking 'one for the team'?"

She thought about this, chewing an answer around in her mouth before opening to release it, then deciding better and swallowing it back down.

Instead, a quiet “maybe,” was her response, and she shifted in her chair, the metal of the support protesting with a short-lived squeak before settling.

The “team” she had been offering to take one for had left already, leaving me to take care of her so that the evening could resume undisturbed. I didn’t particularly mind. She wasn’t loud or even indignant. Her drunkness, instead, had manifested into confusion and an unburied desire to please. The string of “sorry”s and insistence on taking everyone’s shot so as to prevent them from blackout did not align with the group’s desire to let alcohol drive the night and, so, they forged an airy excuse in regard to her need to “take a breather” and took their leave.

She fiddled with the thin, plastic straw swimming in her drink, her eyes unfocused, other arm tucked neatly between her and the bar.

“Hey.”

The word settled in the air between us before reaching her. Her head turned upwards and she flushed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, offering a smile with the apology before bending to dig in her purse. “What do I owe you?”

I paused. “$27.50.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

I waited patiently as she continued her search, pausing every once in a while as though she had become lost or forgotten her goal, before pulling the purse onto her lap and procuring a silver card. She handed it to me, and I refilled her glass with water.

“Drink, okay? I’ll be back,” I promised.

She nodded politely before returning her gaze downward. I snuck glances as I ran the card. Her hair had fallen flat in the heat of the room, makeup melted a little, but not enough to be immediately jarring. She kept her eyes on her glass, but without moving to take a sip. I bought some time fiddling with the machinery, allowing some lingering customers to grab my attention for one thing or another before running out of excuses to return.

Handing her a cheap pen, her receipt, and card she thanked me quietly, signing her name with big, loopy strokes before offering me another small smile alongside the pen and receipt. She moved to leave, collecting her belongings and tucking the silver card into a pocket. Do I say something? She’s not the first drunk girl to leave this place alone, and she wouldn’t be the last.

“Your water?” I suggested, a last-ditch effort to asway any feelings of uselessness.

“Sorry,” she said, taking a conservative sip before smiling as if to assure me she would be alright.

She repeated it, “Sorry,” and then I let her leave.

memories make cemeteries

inside of us.

I bury bodies daily, 

depending on the weather.

Today: three in my liver,

a couple near my lungs, 

one under my heart.

It was sunny, but even still,

nothing good survives.

.

I am wasps’ nests and spider webs and hacked hedges

and death.

.

so I look for life on the outside- 

what else can you do?

thankfully, our earth is very green

and I get to sprinkle my see-through love

on the grave-growing gods that I selfishly collect

on my windowsill.

.

They shoot past their pasts

daily, despite the weather,

like I so desperately

wish I could.

“I hate this city,”

they say, cracking under decades of drought,

holding a heat that burns up their insides like a fever.

Callouses harden over ears,

their eyes sticktight, prickly irises scanning,

desperate to catch on a dog’s fur,

or stray pant leg;

they tumbleweed through their desert life.

“Nothing happens here.”

.

But the wildflowers would disagree-

in the springtime, anyway,

when they, little gods, paint the fields,

nectar-sweet. Where the hummingbird snacks

on popcorn flowers and holly hock,

full of sunshine satisfaction.              

And despite the cactus crowd,

I love my little life down in the desert

where the warm valley sings to us daily

and sometimes,

we listen.

.

the world is ending outside

and I lie in bed,

listening to it.

.

I worry first, 

like my mom used to,

in the face of the cruelty

and bellowing vastness

that awaits us all

.

then I sneak away to watch,

like my dad used to,

cozy under the open garage,

in flashlight wonder of

its nose-numbing omnipotence

.

and now

I lie in bed, listening to it,

the world ending outside.

.

ancient and abandoned

a whisper of antiquity

a porous, poorly pieced together 

     piece of history

a reminder of drywall days 

     and peeling popcorn ceilings 

that people are still trying to paint over

.

Like this statue,

I, too, am a little rough

     around the edges

.

The day was like a hot blonde- kind, smart, funny, and a fucking tease.

It was supposed to be a rainy night. More importantly, it was supposed to my alone time, self-care, a hot bath, and two AAA batteries kind of rainy night. I dreamt of it all week: imagined the chilly, whispering night going down, the water steaming as it touched my skin, my toes as they curled.

Instead, I watched the shitty, overcast day flirt and wink, build and gather, and grow darker and nearer until it hovered over me, breathed on my neck, nibbled at my ear, and... dried up, as unattainable as a hot blonde.

And then my fucking doorbell rang.

I do not want to be good or presentable anymore.

Too much of my youth has been spent buttering myself up to be paired

With a slice of lamb, or silky scallops

On somebody else's plate.

The men can keep their meats.

.

I'll waste the rest of my years as I have always wanted:

Cursing and dancing and yelling,

Tangling my hair, taking up space,

Doing the things my mother told me not to do.

Sharing my laughter with the grass and the sun. in a delicious exaultation:

All for myself.

.

it’s

overgrown

like a weed

wild and unwelcome

overblown

like a wrinkling rose

someone’s been meaning to snip

overflown

like a leggy, lanky, low-laying

thing

.

crawling

.

inch

by

inch

.

spilling its tentacles

over the windowsill

against the glass

sprouting wiry, weak limbs

that do not work

.

creeping

.

inch

by

inch

.

reaching-

.

to Nowhere.

.

roots stifled

slowly suffocating

in a pot

it’s

overgrown

.

I swerve a little to the left;

Not to preserve the sanctity of a body,

But to avoid getting your death on my tires.

Loosely based on Sir Philip Sydney’s poem “Astrophil and Stella 39″. 

.

The original: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45160/astrophil-and-stella-39-come-sleep-o-sleep-the-certain-knot-of-peace

.

Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,

Sitting on my lids in Renaissance Lit.

Come sheep! O sheep, come to give me release,

Jumping over the table where I sit.

Wolfe, Milton, Yeats, Donne,

I’d rather be outside, lying in the sun.

To His Coy Mistress, I say goodbye,

Smack The Flea, shut an eye.

Don’t check your phone, it’s almost time to leave;

But until then, I’ve got something up my sleeve.

I’ll mimic form- and write and write and write,

But the rhyme and meter aren’t even right!

So until next class, I’ll content to dream

Of a warm cup in hand, full of caffeine.

.

A response poem to Sir Thomas Wyatt’s “They Flee from Me”,  in the same rhyme and meter. 

.

Original: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45589/they-flee-from-me

.

Once upon a time there was a hunger

For a man sweet, for a man kind, and soft.

I ran from the cruelty and the thunder

Of those whose hearts are demanding and lost.

In the forest of love, there grew a frost;

And in the dead of winter, there was you,

Red, warm, and brilliant against all the blue.

 .

Like a wounded thing, I ate from your hand:

Fleshy, flushed, alive; I sucked a finger.

The forest bloomed into the promised land:

A bountiful place where the heat lingered.

But like the gown that fell from my shoulder,

So fell your mask and your sweet summer spell;

Suddenly your warmth transformed into hell.

 .

You wanted it all, things I wouldn’t give:

Demanded my heart, my body, and soul.

The devil is someone you can’t forgive

And I’ll not scurry back into a hole;

You starved me and now I’ll swallow you whole.

They tell me don’t bite the hand that feeds you

But I don’t like being told what to do.

(fuck idioms)

.

Summer has a way of taking back the things it gives

And it gave so much this year

.

You were like the heatwave that rolled through my town mid-August:

Hot, like the road ahead, distorted in little waves

Brazen, like the sun bearing down on sunburnt flesh

Conceited, like the burning air making a home in a place it wouldn’t stay

.

Fiery, fearless, and fatal.

.

But most importantly: gone with the summer,

dissolved in a fever dream,

exonerated of melting

in the 109 degrees you left behind.

.