Grace Pasco
Choice Gains
Patience, n. a minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue.
-Ambrose Bierce By the water, a bird is caught. Sharpened claws are cloaked with thick woolen mittens. The owner resists the urge to scratch off The artificial warmers, since hunger, Suppressed, provides heat enough. Rough knots in the lower stomach betray And reveal the pouncing need to devour. Hours pass. The claws start to retract. Lips start to purse. The wrists are relaxed And the gaze? Heavy at the lids. The prey. The bird. The meal Is set free at the price of the bigger creature's will of won't kill. Big fish come closer to the surface. Only then is resistance released. The feed provides heat enough. The need to devour is at once realized. Actualized. Minutes pass. The claws are full of meat. The mouth makes chomping motions. Wrists are intent to dine. And the gaze? Heavy at the lids– Asleep. Bubble BoyI see him packing up without me,
Getting ready to slip out the house while I sleep. He’ll be careful so the locks won’t click too loud Or the floors creak too much. He is worried that the car should Surreptitiously tell me of his departure, Which would rupture the bubble he’s blowing, The one he’ll ride like the Good Witch of the North. Like the one in Wizard of Oz. So I fold And crisscross my arms over my chest And act according to plan. Awake, I sleep. Then, click go the locks and Creak goes the floor. And the car? Is a narc. I look to the gusts of wind and pray That his bubble only bursts when he is ready To land with hands open, Unclenched and at peace. Nine O'Clock on a SaturdayMy piano man
With big hands Is patient. He touches my skin The way he plays his fifty-two keys— Gently and just right. We make music. We crescendo. Our pieces have codas and encores and We make our own remixes. Neither of us minds being benched because We have a good view of an ivory coast. Our fingertips tap on With spines aligned. Anchored. Our minds are on chords That keep in time with a four-four count. Our sounds are steady And make sense, Intense at times when we hit Ninty-five decibels, Incredible! Then, the decrescendo, The cool down with the pedal off– Cue the second run through to the end zone- Watch the fermata-- Where we hold a bit— longer, Because my Billy Joel Is a tender percussionist As I sing the melody, we both keep rhythm As we make peace from our sturdy bench, Across a 52-key ivory coast. I Go Toward the WellI walk to the well
To see how much water can fill My eager bucket. The water does not have to quench thirst, For I but come to observe the way liquid plays In the solid wood. But sometimes, I run to the well-- To splash fresh water onto my face. With it, my tears and sweat blend together And I beseech relief to meet me. The water reflects to me a steadiness That was not allowed to me by Distractions and a raced pace. I look into the designated hole on the ground And see the sky above, Bright and dancing. And darkness ceases to be a thing of fear. Instead, it’s a theatre for potential Within the well toward which I run. Today, I sit by the well. And watch as strangers, too, Draw their bucketfuls. I am not ready yet to look again Into the depths of the designated hole on the ground, So I will wait Until I have no choice but to pick up my wooden retriever And let it fall and scoop up What it will. |
What "Apart" Meant We rented the room at the end of the hallway
On D Building’s silent Third floor, With odd-numbered rooms on the right And even-numbered rooms to the left. Our neighbor’s door Was marked with red paint. Or was it marker? With a hexagonal wooden ornament and cased-in mirror. The street we chose was hidden away From the loud krump of the city. Our building had a forcefield temperature setting Of at least 70 degrees. We opened an eggshell-coated entrance, And saw the sunlight shining through the edges of thick, heavy, cream-colored curtains. There was a queen-sized bed, walking space, and big, white dressers with mirrors. There was a painting of a white lily mounted over the headboard. And the best part: Opaque, glazed, glass doors that could meet together in the middle to close And could glide to the sides of the room if we so chose to open them. My then-roommate, ex-lover, past-friend, now-stranger Would cook in our sun-lit kitchen. He built a nest in the balcony for birds hiding from the rain, “Since,” he said, “the trees outside do not have sturdy enough branches.” He was a live-in Saint Francis of Assisi, An in-house Snow White. Our apartment can be found at the corner of where the motorcycles were parked, or are parked. As I visit the details of our home in Ramkhamhaeng 26, I remember: Being “apart” meant that we would no longer be roommates, no longer lovers, no longer friends. My now imaginary friend lives in another space, with another woman, where he cooks In another kitchen, and cares for another bird, in another nest, in the present tense. Beware of Blueberries
Someone Else
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