life

3 or 6

I.

“Would you like 3 or 6?” My eyes-wide are boring holes into this pallid glass of orange juice in front of me. I hear him (the pancake dude), but I cannot break my vision away. My drink has netted itself into tiny ripples; vibrating from the buzz of the restaurant. Tiny clumps of pulp bob up and down like buoys in salt-water sea.

There are waiters waiting for the old grey dying couple to choose their 2pm dinner. Bus boys carrying plastic grey tubs of dirty melamine dishes into the sink sloshed around with soap, just to be slopped up again with eggs and sausage or chicken and waffles. His voice is a tiny speckle in the boisterous breakfast spot. “So… was that a short stack?” I look up. He smiles, but he’s annoyed I haven’t answered him yet. Thick black dreads line the back of his scalp. His tender skin claims innocence and ignorance. He is older than me, but I have seen more than he ever has.

“Just the 3 is fine.” Mom finally answers for me. Tight jawed. Furrowed brows. An almost convincing smile. “Let me put that right in for you, ok?” Pancake dude takes our menus. Stephanie is sitting next to mom, twiddling her hair into her fingers, around her thumbs, across the tops of her hands, and back again back again back again. In these unpleasant vinyl booths. I can’t believe they still make vinyl booths. Neither of us have spoken to each other since last night. Mom is dancing with sideways glances, trying to catch a glimpse of sadness or tears on our faces. She won’t look us in the eyes though. She feels responsible. Which is and isn’t true. 

I look up from the table and catch her staring at me. She clears her throat and pretends to look behind my head, at the clock on the far wall. Hair into fingers, around her thumbs, across the tops of her hands, and back again back again back again. Mom holds her cross pendant in the palm of her hand. 

Breakfast tastes like sour milk and sugar. Nobody wants to go home.

II.

Dad’s favorite song comes on as soon as Mom’s engine turns over. She slaps the radio dial mute with the heel of her hand. I think it was trying to reach out and pull her down into the speakers. 

III.

Mom turns to us and puts her fingers up to her lips right before she lets us out of the car. “Don’t wake up your dad, ok? He’s sleeping upstairs.” 

Aunt Joyce is already there when we get inside the house. She’s cast out any trace of evidence from the night before. Dad’s favorite chair is right side-up and back against the wall where it’s supposed to be. Our floor lamp is gone, but so is the broken base and shattered bulb. She even replaced the repugnant smell of Jack Daniels with Lysol, and a peppermint candle. Everything almost looks normal. It feels as sterile as a hospital, but it’s better.

My breath instinctually becomes more shallow, quieter. I think maybe only I could hear the difference, but I wasn’t willing to take the chance. Steph and I slowly lower ourselves to the ground and unlace our sneakers with patience and precision. Socks stay on; bare feet squeak on linoleum floors. We become methodic in our movements. Don’t step on that floorboard, it creaks. Open the cupboard, but don’t let it slam. I even see mom gently placing her purse on the countertop. We are tiny, uneasy guests in our own house. 

V.

The only thing Aunt Joyce didn’t manage to cover up was the immense gouge of freshly chipped paint and cracked gypsum board in the wall. I can hear the yelling and screaming again as I start to think about what happened. I stare at the dent in the wall until I don’t see a dent anymore.

VI.

Mom makes us dinner as usual, and Steph and I watch Nickelodeon after, as usual. The white dent seems to have eyes. It twists and turns in my peripheral vision. Morphing into a disfigured face; something foul and unearthly. I don’t think Steph can see it, but I know it’s there.

Aunt Joyce is helping mom clean up in the kitchen. I can hear their whispers over “Legends Of The Hidden Temple”, and the sound of plates being put into the dishwasher. They are being too loud.

 “Are you sure you and the kids are safe here, Lisa?” “Yes, of course. He’s their father. This has never happened before.” Which, of course, is and isn’t true. 

VII.

Tip toe up the stairs. Brush teeth. Put on clean pajamas. 

Mom folds the sheet and blankets underneath my mattress the way I like. Usually being strapped in snug is nice, but tonight it feels like a cage. She smiles at me and kisses me goodnight, but lingers on the bed for a bit.

I close my eyes, turn to the side and feign sleep. There has been so much silence today in rooms full of people. I don’t want to spend another single minute like that. Mom leaves. I stare at the glow-in-the dark planets on my wall.

Saturn.

Pluto.

Mars.

Jupiter.

I reach out to touch them and trace the stars.

I think about the dent.

Breakfast.

Last night.

VIII.

2:00AM

The door creaks, and light spills into my room. The noise immediately wakes me up, but I do not move. I don’t move. Don’t move don’t move don’t move don’t move.

His breathing is so heavy, and loud. Careless, clumsy footsteps approach my bed. My eyes are shut so tight. I try to relax them so he won’t notice, but I can’t help it. 

“Hey bud, are you awake?” I smell the bite of alcohol from his breath as he stands over me. It burns my nose, but I don’t move. If I don’t move he won’t know I’m awake.

He ruffles my hair, hapless and sloppy. Tries to shake me awake. I don’t want to be touched. I know what he did and I know who he really is. I want him away so I can sleep. My head screams STOP my body screams STOP.

“Jack?” Mom calls him from the bedroom. 

Dad stands over my bed for another minute before leaving. I think he’s looking at the planets. We look at the planets together, apart. I don’t notice him and he doesn’t remember me there anymore.

I think of my mother. The taste of sour milk. I feel the dent with every step he takes away. 

Appetence

She, The Bruised Child that guides me
Has brushed arms with Eros and his Lyre
She says
Your soul mirrors mine.

It sings to me
Wakes me in the early morning dark
And calls me to attention
We concede, guilty and alive.

If to sunbathe in your affection is criminal
Then I am a sinner, unapologetic of my indulgence
to be completely understood is rare
I’ll pay Heaven’s price.

Sweet Tea

Feral goddess of tequila and lust,
bring me the serum,
the honeyed-essence that you diffuse so freely,
the spirit,
the significance you embellish upon every man you cross.

It commits them criminal; loony with admiration
they all come to you without hindrance
if only to gaze upon the freckles of your sweet skin.

Spanish-speaking enchantress
At what age did you learn
that you can captivate the emotion of men
with just one or two bats of an eyelash?

It is an honor to be touched by you
kissed by you;
I will seek your eternal blessings
if that is what you are willing to give me.

East River
My thoughts are not unlike
the unforgiving East River
lucid, ever-daunting
A frigid conglomerate of salt and sea

My subconscious almost pleads for safety
But I am built for this moment
illness softens me to perish

A front flip into black ice
My solid limbs cracking slabs of ice apart on impact
210lbs. of skin & bone slips beneath the frozen blocks
Floating to the bottom with the assistance
Of lead organs and 30 lb. dumbbells

I want to say I am uncomfortable in this
heavy unhealthy abyss
But I have been here so long
I forget what it’s like to be above water.

Nature’s Cupid

The taste of a love-lies-bleeding tickles my tongue
Legend has it each bite holds infatuation unsprung

I am starry-eyed, skipping joy on my feet
This isn’t for the fickle-hearted or the semi-sweet

I chew morsels of tenderness; I seek the love of one man
The madness & passion that will last a life span

Tresses of ruby red stain my sugarcane teeth
As I feel Heaven rumble from far below,

under,

beneath.

Mr. Sandman

Sweep the sleep off my eyes
A chock white “pop!” of the broken door lock wakes me
Poppa is home with baked ziti and Italian bread
It is 4-am, or some odd

The stench of drink and smoke swirls sweet and palpable in the air that pervades him
But it is nothing
Time is nothing
But the scruff of my father’s beard
Salt & Pepper Giant
A wire-y soft mass of age
I pet his long hair and brush his scraggly sideburns with my small, clumsy hands

Sleep is for the weak-hearted
And for when he is a restless lion, I am a devoted cub
I stay awake to listen to the tall tales of the night before
the stories he preaches like scripture.

We watch NY 1
Until the sun is bright in the sky again.
Thunderous snores begin to escape from poppa’s gaping mouth.
We are no longer lions, but tired house-cats
Nodding off to sleep; embracing the sweet rays of sun.