You Should Be an English Major

You should be an English major--

    the way you read between my lines

   and do a close-read of my life;
or a biochemist, the way you slap
me between sheets of glass
and make me your specimen.

I can't hide anything from you.

You're like a forensic scientist,
telling where I've been and what
I've done with a single cell;
or an archaeologist--
the way you dig through my dirt
to discover how I lived.

You shape my entire story.

You could be a psychologist--
the way you sift my brain through
a sieve to analyze me.
You are God, the way you know
and created me. I worship at your feet;

but what I really need is a
heart surgeon
to stitch up the shards
you left when you were
done
with me.

"Did you..." she began, hesitantly, "Did you know right away... that ... that you were dead?" 

He chewed the corner of his bottom lip thoughtfully. "No," he answered slowly, "No. I did not know right away." She watched him as he reminisced quietly, his already faint eyes becoming glassy as he looked past her shoulder at a memory to which she did not have access. 

Uncomfortably and uncertain that he would hear her over his reflection, she spoke timidly. "When, when did you know?" It seemed like a safe enough question, not too invasive, althogh she didn't so much want to know when; instead, she burned to know how, but the word seared through her like a ribbon of fire when she thought about it. 

In reality, he didn't seem dead, not really. After all, she'd had enough conversations with him to know that he could carry on a conversation as well as anyone with a brain and a skeleton. He had human habits, she'd noticed--like biting his lip. He had human qualities: he was sometimes impatient, but not unkind when he was--instead he mostly sounded annoyed. In fact, he had seemed perfectly human to her the first time she'd ever encountered him, not at all like she'd imagined someone who was dead. Besides his habit of fading, rather than walking in and out of her presence, he looked perfectly human; human enough to touch, to go about daily life as any living being and not raise alarm, human enough that his chest still rose and fell with the slight suggestion of a steady breath. How had he known he was dead, then? Had he seen his own body? The thought made her tense. How had he died? For all their conversations, she'd never inquired--she'd never asked what she now considered vital questions. 

As if he could discern her thoughts he suddenly jerked to change his attention. "When," he repeated, a crease forming between his brows--another all-too-human quality--"for some it only takes a few minutes before they know. For others, it could take hours." She couldn't imagine going hours and not knowing you were dead. It seemed impossible to her. "It takes a certain kind, a rare kind, to go that long." 

"So, when you do know...," she began tentatively, as the ribbon shot through her again, that acute indication that perhaps she didn't want to and shouldn't know. 

"How do you know," his finished for her, his eyebrows raising inquiringly? She nodded, swallowing hard. It wasn't like she was expecting him to tell her that he knew because of some terrible, catastrophic event or realization. It wasn't like she was really afraid of what he would say. Though she felt pulled by some invisible thread that yearned for her to know, the ribbon that twisted its way through her rib cage told her that something within her resisted his answer. 

He seemed to contemplate how best to explain to her, angling his head slightly. When he arrived at an answer, he nodded once and regarded her gently. "You do not know you are dead until you try to do something that requires a body and discover that you cannot." 

She looked at him for several moments, confused at what this meant. She thought of all the things it took for humans to talk: vocal cords, the muscles of the face, mouth and tongue, and so many other things that were necessary that she probably didn't know about. He spoke to her just fine, she thought. He could walk, although he was entirely able to float as well. It seemed to her that he had it backwards. He could do things without his body that he couldn't do with it. What could he possibly mean, you didn't know you were dead until you tried to do something that required a body?

Silently, and without looking her in the eyes, he crossed over to where she stood. He slowly reached out his hand as she watched, breathlessly, and gently put his hand over hers. She wondered for a moment why he let it hover there, without actually making contact. Then she realized that he was touching her, and yet she felt nothing. He moved his hand away as she finally understood. 

Letters: Dear Blog,

I'm sorry you are so devoid of my virtual ink. I have, as of late, abandoned your pixels for the paper of my journal. I just needed a more private relationship. While I am sorry for your sake, that I've concluded three series, know that new and exciting things wait for you.

Someone to Frost my Cake

I love baking. A lot. Yesterday, I baked a cake for a family 

party. All was coming out roses until it came time to frost. 

I'm not gonna lie: I've never frosted my own cake before.

Decorating I can do, but putting down the frosting canvas 

is not my specialty. As I frosted the cake, it fell apart on me. 

It turned out fine in the end, but it wasn't nearly as pretty 

as the cakes my friend always frosts for me. As I lamented 

her absence, I really wished I had her there to frost my cake.

I gather the cocoa, the sugar, the flour;

I pour in the water and oil.

Mixing, mixing, turning, and whisking--

the batter splatters the counter, the bowl 

and my hair. 

The smooth satin mixture tumbles into the mold,

then I shut the oven door. 

Heat and rising, wait and harmonizing.

The clock dings done, cooling commences, 

the filling and frosting await. 

Assembly begins, the filling goes in, the layers 

form their spire--the cake goes up, to scrape the 

sky as it goes higher and higher. 

As soon as I step back to admire

it buckles and frowns--under the frosting

the facade topples

down. 

I didn't have the perfect hand, 

to frost my cake and it still stand. 

At the baking and assembling I'm well adept,

but I always fail at this important step;

so next time I venture out to bake,

I'll bring a friend to 

frost my cake. 

Stay: Leaving

I remember the pigments a different way--

bejeweled and gilded tones--

standing with cocked heads and clasped hands. 

I see the fuzzy edges of the original

viewed darkly through despair

and forming shadows that were never there:

misunderstood representations

for which there was no 

interpretation--

seen now through the clear-cut

kaleidoscope of hope and hindsight bias

the pictures of possibilities change into 

unpredictable patterns.

New expressions form under different light;

scenes and stories not yet explored

darken the past and illumine emotions.

The brush strokes are the same... I just see more of them now.

Silencing Archimedes--in prose

I look up from closing the cover on a dusty book, listening for the sound of stirring wings. I hear silence instead. Even my own breath is too shallow to make a sound. My finger makes a comet's tail in the distinct gray film that coats the table. It is the only mark I will leave here, and like every comet's tail, it will fade. 

Books sit many days untouched, the curtains smell musky, boards creak uncomfortable under my feet, not used to strangers. I walk to his perch, left without its occupant since Nimue. In the dark room, there is little not to see. I imagine his head pressed next to his side and his yellow eyes shining as they circumspect me. 

I open the curtains to let in the light, destroying the images of the darkness. Clouds of dust erupt from the curtains in plumes and dance in the sunlight before settling on lamps and furniture. The new sun creates shadows where before there were none. I appreciate the dark corners with their mysteries and welcome the clarity of open spaces. I take them both together.

I examine the perch sympathetically and smile sadly. It's occupant is obsolete. I hang up his wings and walk away. 

Silencing Archimedes--in poetry

He comes and folds his wings on purple days

before the clouds can break above the mind

when hazy meadows hover after eyes

and heavy clouds hang in the heart and head.

Inquest in his searching eyes, swiv'ling skull

is wisdom's guise--doubt, cynicism and 

pride prompts present'ment and unrest. He chides

with spiked tongue and talons, disturbs the fog. 

But the Sun comes, cutting clouds, dispelling 

doubt and expelling all unease. Now new light

colors meadows in the dawn; and diff'rent 

birds sing down my sanguine mornings.

I do not hear the night bird's sound anymore.

I hang up his wings to the perpetual day.