It was early summer, 1969 when your mother and I visited the seashore in Blackpool. We had been married awhile and didn’t think we’d ever have children of our own.
That was OK though, we were researching the adoption process.
There was carousel at North Pier.
We spread a blanket on the sand.
You came along, nine months later.
He watched, trying to read faces. Were they amazed? Did they watch with doubt? Or devotion?
The collective countenance that peered back gave nothing away.
They took most of his tongue when they removed the tumor. Now his words are soft and indistinct.
I sit awake in our bed as
You slumber next to me
There’s frost on the garden and I struggle to steal your warmth.
Across the room – a blackened window
A simple thing, of little import, until
Old Sol peeks over the eastern
edge of the earth
Sunflowers turn their heads
to wish him well, as they are want to do.
and slide closer.
Today begins anew, as yesterday ended.
Welcome to World History.
My name is Dr. Contreras.
I expect you to know the syllabus; turn your assignments in, on time, and pay attention to the lectures.
There will be no wool-gathering in my class.
On the rim of the world
our legs dangle over the edge.
We watch your mother, hold hands with her brother,
your pervy uncle Sal.
They kiss, and leap into the abyss, eyes closed.
It makes us wonder.
Other people, other places, other things lie scattered,
from here to the other edge.
The other edge where your father sits
leaning back to back with his brother.
The one you’ve only seen photographs of, the one who was
killed in the war. When he stands, the men shake hands
your uncle steps from the edge.
It makes us wonder.
Relationships, lies, and truths are scattered about
edge to edge.
I turned fifteen in 1916. I was overseas. On that morn, I lifted my head above the trench to look across the battlefield.
Coils of concertina wire lay across the furrowed ground. Trenches filled with dead, frightened, and damaged men.
She was a handsome woman, never without a walking stick or a parasol, depending on the occasion. Her chrome plated derringer always close at hand. Cinched tight in the hollow of her neck, on a dark ribbon, she wore an ivory cameo with a silhouette of her mother. A silver flask of rye was kept tucked into her beaded handbag for medicinal purposes, of course.
Elizabeth looked at her reflection and sighed. She’d cleansed, moisturized and applied primer. She was ready for the next step. Betsy liked heavy foundations and dug through her drawer for a new makeup blending sponge; dampening it first she dipped it directly into the pressed powder and went to work. She dabbed and blended before applying setting powder with a small fluffy brush.
In the mirror she turned her head left and right, she liked what she saw so she pulled on a black scoop neck blouse and fluffed her hair
Cuando un toque enciende el interés y
Un beso despierta la pasión.
Rendirse, dejar que se queme.