—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
THE SET OF HER BODY
I look at the set of her body, the style of range, the linoleum on the patio, the robin’s nest in the eave of the front porch, the wino sipping whiskey out of a glass bottle in a paper bag on the front stoop. She is afraid to go outside until he leaves. I go outside and sit next to him.
Inside, the windows mirror self-satisfaction and overcast skies. Outside, the sky is true blue and the sun bright white. He offers me the bottle and I decline. He pulls a broken pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on. “I feel cooler now,” he says and takes another drink.
When I go back inside, she has put on her pretty dress and is standing in the room she has named MY FANCY ROOM. The room is empty space with the exception of a rich thick handmade rug on one wall and another on the hardwood floor. I look at the set of her body. I reach for her waist. “You are in need of a tune-up,” I whisper, and she nods, yes, handing me her arm. I begin to tighten her strings.
Wouldn’t you know it is at that exact moment a car backfires down the street, a man shoots a stranger with a shotgun two blocks over, and suddenly there is the symphonic opera eclipse of sirens rushing to the just- now explosion in the industrial part of town.
I sit against the wall and look at the set of her body. This is too much to carry in my head. The set of her body…the design of her dress…the broken strings in my hand…
EVIL IS NOT PERSONIFIED
Evil is not personified—the masked painting—the human flesh of face behind a human depth of pain.
Explain it to me with numbers—the number blue—the knot on the hemp colored sixteen—a gash as red as seven and twelve.
Visualize it as if you were air—a stinginess in a lack of oxygen—the poison breath of monoxides—a layering of carbon bricks—the thick scent of mustard on sulfur.
Why is it you cannot understand any of this?—the spit in the eye—the lurch of the hand—the half-naked man ordering me to sic my dog on her, the one he loves holding his first-born three-month-old gently in her arms.
THE BIG PARTY
There was no elephant in the room,
only a pimple that just now sprouted
exactly one hour before the biggest party ever
and there it was in her mirror, big as her nose,
off to the right another face on her forehead,
so big she wanted to scream.
She thought to call a few of her friends,
but she knew they, too, were getting ready
and she thought to ask her mom for advice,
but in the end she pulled out her strategic makeup,
studied the combinations, cover-ups, colorings
and decided, no, she would wing it,
combed her hair the way she always wore it,
put on her favorite party blouse, her torn jeans,
and when she entered the party, everyone greeted her.
She danced with one boy, then another,
smiling and laughing, dancing and joking
and soon she realized she was the only one
who knew there was an elephant in the room.
No one asked about her pimple or even cared
and so the night went on and her elephant
shrunk and shrunk until it was invisible.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SHORTS
—Michael H. Brownstein
Sometimes the sign of a short is obvious,
other times no—
my short is buried deep
within the folds of nerve ending,
not a broken wire within the wall,
maybe inside my socket.
______________________
—Medusa, thanking Michael Brownstein for his slight-of-hand in today’s fine prose poetry, bringing us images to surprise and delight . . .
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