Peach Stone Monkey

Grandpa's peach stone monkey, warm in the palm of my hand.
I remember one summer when I was much younger;
an age when holding a sharp pocketknife made my heart hot,
made me feel brave.
He said, in his thick southern drawl, that he'd show me how.
I ate the ripe august peach
on the stone steps of the huge house,
juice running over my fingers
onto my skinned knee, stinging slightly.
When I was finished, we carefully cleaned the peach stone
and sat on that mountain porch
in the middle of the north Carolina heat.
He handed me his old pocketknife
and showed me how and where to cut.
My monkey looked nothing like his.
Mine was a rough, alien shape,
although the eyes were straight where I'd twirled the knife.
His was perfect. The tiny creature; curled around,
legs and fingers resting on its tail,
the tip of the tail touching its mouth,
the gentle backbone, knees, hips, tiny nose, cheeks.
Mine looked more like an embryo of his,
but I was proud of it and pleased I hadn't cut myself.
I tried again, later on, but I never quite got it right.
I keep the one he made for me
in a tiny Egyptian inlaid box,
surrounded by hundreds of red glass beads.
I haven't taken it out and held it for quite some time.

someone broke the heart of the sky

Lying back to grass under the great whimpering Vancouver sky,
my closed eyes can feel the shadows of the listless clouds as they trudge overhead,
the half-wind breathing across my ground spread self,
lifting rain smells to flutter about like naiads.
I lie still in body and beyond, waiting blindly for the first wet droplet to strike my face.
A slight chill pulls goosebumps awake;
sends sterling shivers in a web spun outward from my backbone.
Like hunger or an anticipated sneeze I wait far below the pregnant grey,
hands playing impatiently with the thirsty blades beneath them.

Unburned

There are so many tiny things in this room
that mean so much
-a small polished fire opal,
the size of my smallest toenail,
thick as a kernel of corn.
The bottom is flat,
the top perfectly rounded and clear, like a bubble.
The clear part is shot through with dreamy colours
-green, purple, blue, red, orange-
and goes straight through the rock
so you can see things through the other side.
I used to try to look through it, but it's too small,
like the eye of a goddess toad, a faerie's egg.
Two nipple-pink beeswax candles,
two inches high, tapering upwards
and joined at the wicks by a tiny dove;
single feathered wings stretched wide,
and seven miniature fuchsia roses, tiny and swirling inward.
We were supposed to burn these candles
in a moment of true love.
They were given to me and the other guests
at the wedding of Darren and Kristine,
April 24, 1993.
I remember the bluegrey invitations,
vividly stamped with sterling wax;
surreal silver roses dancing around an empty oval.
I remember the dress Kristine had sewn for herself.
A beautiful ivory empress dress, her train held by twin roses,
her hair red and ruddy and unusually wild was
put up and woven through with baby's breath,
a few rebel strands escaped and hung down fetchingly.
Darren was late and I stood with Kristine
at the top of the stairs,
her wringing her pale freckled hands,
me with my gift wrapped comfortings.
Darren finally showed,
flushed with excitement and damp with rain;
a misted renaissance man in velvet breeches and tails.
The ceremony took place in her parents home and was quick.
The buffet; huge fresh and perfect strawberries,
kiwi slices cool and half-tanged,
thinly rolled ham,
thick shards of ripe brie hiding amongst fresh grapes
and tiny swirled chocolates.
Later, I got soaked by the rain which faded into brightness
and a huge soft prism behind.
I wonder when each person burned their candle.
I wonder if I'm the only one left.
These candles lasted longer
than the marriage they were celebrating.
Love seems to be crepe-paper thin these days,
it gets a bit damp or tries to hold too much and it tears,
shredded into many fading petals.

Coke at midnight

Ice-cold Coke at midnight
washing down angel food cake and blueberries.
I'm feeling clean and smooth as a sunlit glacier.
The apartment air has mellowed
as if invisible iron has softened into butter.
Light bright blur of sunset smeared across the darkening sky
opposite a dwindling silver moon
sitting patiently on the skyline like a chipped thumbtack.

Bleary December

Rain again coming down hard as fleas in July.
Early morning; damp and grey and melancholy,
mood swinging low and out over the dawn of a new day.
Cold water splashed on my face and in my belly,
waking me slow and sober,
opening my tired flowers one petal at a time.
Winter has a different taste this year.
Perhaps from lack of both snow and sleep
it's more of a grey fallen purgatory,
without the crisp icy coldness
that causes me to crave fire logs
and the songs of Leonard Cohen around me.
Vancouver is being washed away by endless rain.

Merry Ho-Ho

Tinsel, gold plums, and cheesy Christmas music lurk everywhere, so bright it blinds me.
The Angel of Commercialism alights on the city
and shits down our chimneys until our eyes are rose tinted and joyous.
She squats and laughs at the lemmings gathering greedy presents,
eyes bright with the gold light of the expected trade.
Slashed 'S' sits, framed by the blackness of our dark circular pupils.
The plastic tree, or life hacked greenage sits lifeless
above these multicoloured cubes tied with ribbons and bows
for those we like to think we know.

Page of Time

The clock face; large and luminous above the doorway,
is alive with her dancing figure,
filmed black on white many decades ago
hair black and glossy down her shoulders,
bangs shotgun straight,
ass like a sweet albino peach
above perfect legs in black silk stockings.
Smile blooming full circle
as she reaches out her black gloved arms
towards whoever may be watching
before the present shifts and begins again.

menses exaust-o-rama

Thirsty and brain fuzzed,
my mind has slipped into bed ahead of me.
Rainy skies on hold above damply brilliant fall leaves.
Colours carpet the sidewalks,
turn to slippery mush under constant footfalls.
I'm waiting for the blood,
pre-echoes brooding inside my belly,
sending waves of pain through my body.
Dizzy floating brain sloshing against my skull,
hard as glass, soft as cement.
Wrapping my tongue in velour
until it's too thick to fit back in my mouth
and hangs off the front of my face like a wounded pigeon.
Body made from fine paper and china.
Rip and shatter.
Bottles smash at the helm of my ship.
Redder than red and ready for bed.
Eyes like oysters
open and short on pearls of wisdom.
Necklaces to the toes
chapping thin skin red along the neckline.
Boat floating in the middle of nowhere,
claims the center of the universe.
My thoughts float on dirty waters.

Junkie

Somewhere along Hastings she got onto the bus.
She fumbled a handful of loose change into the coin slot,
took her transfer, and just as quickly let it flutter to the aisle floor.
Her hair was a brassy bleach blonde,
rooted by brown ingrowth and stringy with grease and dirt.
She was wearing only an improperly buttoned up man's shirt
which barely concealed her sagging breasts and surely tracked arms.
Clearly visible pubic hair sprouted sparsely
above her pasty pale overflowing thighs
spiderwebbed with thin red burst veins.
She shuffled down the aisle in her bare feet,
making glassy pseudo goddess eyes at the chosen few,
oblivious of the children in the front
laughing and pointing in amused disgust.
She loudly offered an embarrassed construction worker a place to sleep.
People all around her either averted their gaze or openly gawked.
She didn't seem to notice the truth of her state
reflected in the reactions around her.
When he declined, she made her way further back,
weaving in a slow motion collection of lurches
towards the seats where my friend and I were
-Kate overheated and myself reeling from menstrual cramps-
stopped just before us, winking brazenly at a starched businessman
who turned his nose towards the window,
grappled with the bell wire,
then made her way down the tri-stair to the cement outside,
walking half proud, half death-soaked, and all lost.

Fingers (Angry Telephone changes his mind)

Drawing faces on her pink childfingers and listening as she names them.
Her pointer finger has a grumpy face and crooked eyebrows.
She names him Angry Telephone.
The thumb is Cat
the middle finger is Jesus
the ring finger; eyes lashed thickly and lips pursed, is Ladyfinger,
her pinkie is God.
The one finger she draws herself in on her other hand is names Sirobie.
I sit back and listen to the stories unfolding in her hands.
Then she asks me to make Angry Telephone smile
because he has changed his mind about phoning his mother (and the cat)
and is content now.
I draw over the frown, making it a dividing line for teeth
in Angry Telephone's huge, demented grin.
Later, the remaining 4 fingers
are decorated to become Goldilocks and the 3 bears,
only the story ends with the bears, their pet poodle, and Goldilocks
becoming friends and all going on a picnic together.

Charred

She spins on the carpet above jingle toes
Bruised veils descend across her,
hiding her pale body in places.
All eyes in the room roam across her skin
as if creeping across the sands of a deeply warm and white desert.
Graceful she turns here body in the small room
and I can smell her hair as she moves.

D-press

Pressing the snakes awake
they slither lithe and microscopic
across the empty blankness of half thoughts.
Ink blots bleed up through the thirsty paper
that I drop over my dreams to cover them up;
make them safe to tread on.
Blisters burn the bottoms of my feet and bloom there;
tiny poppies and posies
I can't merely pluck and arrange neatly in the corner of the room.

Bottom's Retirement

The wooden cart is pulled by a stale, grey donkey,
head bowed as if remembering a shameful prayer.
He snorts through velvet lined nostrils
that stream faint steamy breath out and up.
A faded red leather strap spiderwebbed through
with cracks and crannies from years of use
cris-crosses his face and frames his eyes.
Rusted silver buckles rest against the side of his weary head.
Behind the tired tail the cart bumps along the path,
scattered now and then with bluebells, foxgloves, and half departed dandelions.
Tiny yellow butterflies, like pale lemons pressed thin and then left to float on the air,
flirt on the breezes, dusting them with their silent laughter whispered invisible.

Happy Unbirthday

Dizzyfast the days fly past.
My memory sieve strains the silt from rare keepsake events
and files them away someplace safe.
Present in body but more often than not my mind wanders elsewhere.

The death of my father's father is near.
A black gift that he's been slowly unwrapping for the last few years
down to its final layers of thin paper.
He'll be smiling when he finally lifts the lid of the box and sees what's inside.
Dark curls of ribbon are scattered across his bed and on the floor beside it.

Sand castles

Sand castles
melt into glassy carpets
that catch my footprints permanently
in a slick and solid trail behind me.
They'll fill up with salted seawater soon enough
and become homes for tiny swirled shell creatures,
lawnchairs for starfish.

-rü

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