Thursday, October 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
I handle wet clumps of laundry, tugging them from the resisting metal ring. I fold wrinkled piles of sheets, crinkled pillowcases. I clean the kitty litter, wiping away stinky streaks of yellow, sweeping stray pieces of sand. I chop olives, tomatoes, and parsley, boil water for pasta. Each small chore that will have to be redone over and over. I stand tired in the kitchen, and my mind strays 2,000 miles away. An airstream trailer reflecting the light of the full moon over a stretch of New Mexico night. A room so small in a quiet place. These years, I have learned how to take care of me. How often I need to clean to survive, to be comfortable. How to cook just enough for one, how to pack it all up and begin again every year or so. I am so afraid that I will lose this new, that by breaking the pattern I will break something, that I’m not good enough for this and that’s why I was alone for so long. I want this shared space, this man at my side. I just don’t know how to keep the airstream dream alive.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A train cinches a mountain’s waist, rusty brown wrapping around summer green, rhythms soothing in their rickety uncalm. Sunlight through transparent leaves, the train inching its way toward its destination. I yet again failed to look at the arrival time when choosing my train and have wound up taking the über-local, cutting through small peasant towns that I have never heard of. I am the only foreigner on the train, the rest of them having chosen a more express route to Napoli through Roma Termini. Smoke lingers just above my bench-style seat, in sight of the sign that reads ‘Vietato Fumare’. I wave it away, back towards the soldier it belongs to, as my walkman starts to jam. The batteries must be dying – it’s playing a U2 verse too slowly, Bono’s falsetto lowered to an eerie and monstrous tone. After some fumbling, I give up, putting away the headphones and sliding open the window to alleviate the stifling heat. The train curves through vines of what look like yellow wisteria blossoms, the scent coming in reminding me distantly of Virginia honeysuckle.
When the four-car train stops, our car gains two passengers: a modestly dressed middle-aged woman and an elderly nun in a grey habit. The younger woman heads immediately to the window, shutting it forcefully, muttering something in a heavy dialetto about how the draft will make us all sick. I long to disagree, but am already too familiar with this cultural difference (having slept in the un air-conditioned apartments of friends where all of the blinds and windows are kept closed, even at night). I sigh, pulling out my train itinerary to fan myself. It does nothing, and I remain drenched in sweat.
The nun speaks to me in a very formal Italian, asks where I am from and where I am headed. She says that she is very impressed that I am travelling around Italy by myself, that I am comfortable travelling alone. Unlike other Italians from small towns that I have met, she does not seem to judge me for it, for being a woman alone in a foreign country. She is full of curiosity about America and my impressions of Italy. Like many other Italians I have met, she displays surprise and delight that a foreigner would be at all interested in learning Italian. The beauty of the language must escape those who were born into it.
The train pulls to a stop in a small mountain town, and the nun thanks me for the conversation as she gets up to leave. She wishes me well on my journey, and I express the same to her. As she pulls open the car door and nods to me with a warm smile, a welcome breeze floods the train. I watch her walk slowly along the platform until she reaches a small group of her sisters, and I watch them grasp hands as the train pulls away. Letting the slow rhythm of the train soothe me, I fall asleep to the soft green curves of mountains, the Italian language weaving itself into my dreams.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Yellowjackets spit into the lavender bushes. Adrenaline needles fall away from the firm, fleshy rind of an orange. In a dream, you perform a tracheotomy with a straw and a hole puncher. Seriously. A swell of belly in Chicago’s steaming August, a patchwork polka-dot of scratchy pink hives. Another needle, this time Cortizone, piercing a pregnant thigh beneath old-school nurse’s whites. The tire was flat and no rush hour suit would stop to help. Trust me, this is only the beginning. A reason for the cheap Chianti. One letter spoken over the phone. You don’t have to send me gifts, honey. Abraham Lincoln’s tooth crumbles to imaginary dust in a one-room cabin. Toxic eruption, there you have it.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
holding them in palm’s embrace,
mouth wide and gaping against
the brown paper crinkle of skin,
teeth tearing crisply into fiery flesh.
She keeps them in her purse,
rolling loosely around with lipsticks
and credit cards, the scent of dark earth
breathing out against her sway of hip,
reptilian skin flaking off in dusty pieces.
She says she loves the taste,
a green fire that burns her tongue
eyes red with the sting of tears
as raw cells burst and leave
her body shielded with scent.
She said it was the only thing
that helped her forget you.