wednesday march 30: notes
Officer Jenkins has sand colored cheeks chiseled by the batting of his ocean-eyes. His surprising beauty paired with the humiliation of my circumstance catches silent in my mouth. He asked me questions. I look at my feet and nod.
I fall asleep in the parking lot memorizing Rebecca’s lines. Rebecca is John’s wife. I love the name John. John will be back in Dublin by now with fragments of my tenderness: he forgot me so quickly, threw away my picture.
The courthouse is easy to find. An officer is riding a horse in front of me. Click-clack, click-clack. It feels odd, obtuse to be a horse inside a city. I wrap my belt around my wallet, keys, lighter, a few pennies. They float through the x-ray belt in a Tupperware box. I do not beep. I put my belt through the loops in my jeans. I throw the pennies in the garbage can. I scribble answers on twelve pages. I don’t want to answer any more questions. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
White chalk on blood red doors. I write: behold the day cometh that shall burn as an oven. I fold a small box out of a larger box and force it into the hole in my wall, made by the metal stool I threw months ago. I roll all my money into the box and cover the hole.
Brian’s face is bright against his black hood. I fail to heed the warning in his brow, the strength of his jaw. “We meet again,” he says, “It must mean something.” I borrow a single paper. It means I can roll a single cigarette.
I have 85 cents for dinner. I steep Earl Grey and add two inches of half-and-half for protein. It is almost white, soft in my mouth, the color of skin.
Xiu Xiu battles the metal band next door. He sings shutup-shut-up like a lullaby. The light hits him blue and yellow from behind but doesn’t make him green. He apologizes too much. A small dark girl yells, “Let’s dance, people!” It’s so stupid that no one dances. I lean on the wall: my legs feel like rotting stilts. I sip coffee, not whiskey.
The bath water folds me into her measure, curls me up maternally. In her embrace I am so young and tired, too tired to wash my hair.
In my dream I fight a man with a knife. I am afraid and so I ask to try again. The second round I am not afraid of the blade, but of my proximity to the man.
I fall asleep in the parking lot memorizing Rebecca’s lines. Rebecca is John’s wife. I love the name John. John will be back in Dublin by now with fragments of my tenderness: he forgot me so quickly, threw away my picture.
The courthouse is easy to find. An officer is riding a horse in front of me. Click-clack, click-clack. It feels odd, obtuse to be a horse inside a city. I wrap my belt around my wallet, keys, lighter, a few pennies. They float through the x-ray belt in a Tupperware box. I do not beep. I put my belt through the loops in my jeans. I throw the pennies in the garbage can. I scribble answers on twelve pages. I don’t want to answer any more questions. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
White chalk on blood red doors. I write: behold the day cometh that shall burn as an oven. I fold a small box out of a larger box and force it into the hole in my wall, made by the metal stool I threw months ago. I roll all my money into the box and cover the hole.
Brian’s face is bright against his black hood. I fail to heed the warning in his brow, the strength of his jaw. “We meet again,” he says, “It must mean something.” I borrow a single paper. It means I can roll a single cigarette.
I have 85 cents for dinner. I steep Earl Grey and add two inches of half-and-half for protein. It is almost white, soft in my mouth, the color of skin.
Xiu Xiu battles the metal band next door. He sings shutup-shut-up like a lullaby. The light hits him blue and yellow from behind but doesn’t make him green. He apologizes too much. A small dark girl yells, “Let’s dance, people!” It’s so stupid that no one dances. I lean on the wall: my legs feel like rotting stilts. I sip coffee, not whiskey.
The bath water folds me into her measure, curls me up maternally. In her embrace I am so young and tired, too tired to wash my hair.
In my dream I fight a man with a knife. I am afraid and so I ask to try again. The second round I am not afraid of the blade, but of my proximity to the man.
posted by emit's calendar at 5:10 PM
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