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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 Boy

I 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 Saturday

My 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 Well

​I 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.

Picture


​Grace Pasco's profile

                              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

My dentist introduced me as
the “girl who does not floss enough”
to his patient with hazel green eyes.
 
Before I could open my mouth to let out a “Hello,”
I felt as though my first impression was already smattered with plaque.
Hazel Green Eyes and I
 
were about eighteen inches away from each other,
which is right around how much string
of wax filament is suggested
 
to properly reach the places bristled brushes won’t.
He was then introduced as
the “boy with weaker enamel than the average human.”
 
We smiled and our teeth opened the doors of our mouths
to see just who this dental-degree holder was talking about.
I came to the rescue of the awkward divulgement and said,
 
“I can’t tell that you have weaker enamel than the average human.”
He replied, “I can tell that you had blueberries for breakfast.”

                 Someone Else


Sometimes, I,

I lie awake and think of a sturdy someone's pectoral muscles
As my pillow, which
Are now someone else's pillow.
I reach for my rectangular squishable object of comfort
And lay my head like so.
 
I then imagine his breath
Over my head and
The rise and fall of his chest
As I sink into a meditation,
Sufficient with its soporific effects.
 
And try not to think about the sex that I'm not having.
That someone else is having.
So I reach for a sixteen-ounce glass of cold water
And take a forty-five-minute shower.
And if that doesn't work, I try not to open online messengers
To send a meagre text.
 
Because he's probably going to respond to the one
That I'm not sending.
That someone else is sending.
It's a happy ending, really
For all of us involved,
 
But I still get hit with
"I-miss-you" spells at night and
Sometimes in the morning,
Or is it just because I need to be pressing some kind of
 
Reset button.
Not like it's new or nothin'
They didn't happen overnight
All of a sudden.
 
Besides,
We've had plenty of space
And months have passed.
We have an ocean and a continent between us
So if that's not enough
What is this heart-string unsnipped from his
Existence which might as well be in another planet.
 
Can't you tell I didn't plan this?
But it is 2am. Last time I checked
It was ten to two. I've got work in the morning
And for a while, I forgot how to pray,
So again, I then,
 
I then imagine his breath
Over my head,
The rise and fall of his chest
As I sink into a meditation,
Sufficient with its soporific effects.
 ​
​
Picture

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