February 16, 2012

• Poetry shmoetry

  I’ve written some stuff I like in my writing class and some stuff that I don’t, but I thought I’d share with you, for better or worse, the stuff I’m pretty pleased with.

   

  1. Creative Nonfiction: “Positive”

  The smell of Blue Year’s Eve nail polish is creeping up my nose and mixing with the lingering smell of pancakes to make a punchy perfume in my bedroom. One leg is falling asleep on my comforter, and I’m thinking about how much I hate that I’ve been a glorified secretary for nearly six years. The sound of a Feist song, muffled under a squishy pillow, announces I have a phone call. I see Jerry’s name on the display, and my stomach feels like it has been destroyed by a large combat boot. I am angry and I am scared. The only reason that phony little turd would be calling is to tell me that 1) Ron is dead, or 2) Ron is dying.

  At once too dim and too bright, the lights in the hospital room make his fragility painfully obvious. I see a skeletal body and sallow skin, bloody-dry lips, and hands that shake like someone twice his age. Even in this condition, even after a year has gone by, he is mad at me for the ultimatum. I tiptoe up to his hospital bed, around the subject of his illness, and, after twenty miserable minutes, out of the room.

  I’m never coming back here again. The words echo in my mind, a mantra, a force propelling me out of the hospital, into my car, and home to quiet and safety and solitude. The second my car door closes the sobs come, distorting my face at first, shaking my entire body, and then easing off until twin rivulets wander lazily down my cheeks, salting my lips, soaking my clavicles. This is why I ended our friendship, because I didn’t want to end up at Ron’s deathbed in the first place. I start the car, something in the engine screeches and begins to smoke, and the tears come again.

  In the musty cab of the AAA tow truck, my car limping along behind us, I numbly answer the driver’s polite questions and relive the fight, the angry silence, the feeling that my best friend was going to die and I could no longer do anything to help. What could I have done differently, I think, when he had a habit of going to the bar after leaving the hospital, of chasing antibiotics with ecstasy? Nothing, I realize with absolute certainty. When someone cares more about a good time than his own life, there is no use in throwing your love, energy, and money into saving what he is giving away with both shaking hands.

  Later that evening, I make the calls to my family, telling them it won’t be long now, looking for comfort. I am confident that my choices were for the best, and I know I wouldn’t change anything if I could do it over. Still, when my grandmother tells me later that I’m much better off without people who live that kind of lifestyle, a part of me wants to slap the sympathy right off of her face.

   

  2. Poetry: “Ritual” (this is a re-write of an October 2005 post)
  

  I position the tarnished old kettle over my cup and pour the water, delicate clouds escaping, rising.
  The steam warms, then cools, my fingers.
  I open the fragrant paper packet, sniff the delicate blend of tea and spearmint, and memories return.

  At the first tentative dip into the hot water, soft green tendrils reach across the surface.
  A rich hue develops as the tea yields and releases, as if paint-covered brushes were soaking.
  Moments pass.

  I raise the cup to my face. The steam warms, then cools, my nose.
  The packet of leaves bobs to the surface and gently presses against my lips, a familiar kiss.
  The feeling of the tea as it slides over my tongue and down my throat is nothing short of sublime.

   

   

  I hope you enjoy and I welcome any constructive criticism or lavish praise (ha).

  It’s quittin’ time. Bye!

  • 6:58 pm
  • 6 Comments