The Daily Belle

Thicker still the trees go the farther down the murder row In dreams roots weep a silent prayer still wondering who's been left up there Unaware and unprepared in the deep bog they feel agog and the grog descends Onto the mother hens who snoop and squawk and squint Not understanding the thoughts of twitching legs and the shells still left in beds Too soft of ground and no real heat but to hard and the boy begins to shrink The movie plays never loud or clear but wild and only into the left ear The plot it thickens and loosens and shrinks and grows In time his nose will get bigger while his confidence grows smaller And all the while still getting taller His mother kissed goodbye Her tears still flying And when he returns his legs are taller and his hair is longer And the sharp golden buttons of his green perfect coat are clean and shining An embrace of somebody Or the crumple of a sheet These women feel no respite.

Stabbing myself in the eye with my pencil, Taking to my legs with shers, Plunging into the Arctic waters and watching the ice form above my head. Letting the car drive into the tree, Or over the bridge in a very Thelma and Louise fashion Watching the candle touch the drapes, And the drapes clinging to the wall. Pushing over bikes at a roadhouse, Licking my lips after a cool glass of arsenic, Sailing over the edge of the earth into a fiery volcano complete with sharks, crocodiles, and piranhas-all man eating. These are things I’d rather do than live in a world without coffee. Anyone seen my cup?

His Violin I heard music in the room as I entered, but all that was there was a violin, lying on its back on the bare floorboards. It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t in its case. I rushed to it and picked it up gently.  As my hand felt the smooth wood, a wash of memories flooded over me. The first time I really heard him playing was the afternoon of my grandmother’s funeral. I’d heard him play many times before, but this this was different. It was slow and quiet; a musical eulogium. I remember the music swirl like a gentle breeze around me, and with his musical decrescendos I felt it grow cold and lonely, despite me standing in the hall watching him. He moved his bow with what looked like agonizing sorrow, it hurt to watch him, to know how alone, cold, and heart-broken he felt. I let my memories go and stood there careful not to take my eyes off the violin. I put it back in the case — the click of the latch was deafening. It hurt to look at, I know because when I tu...