cynthiawhamill

Day 70: Asleep

As the superior officer, Julia took first watch. Even with a company of two, rules were rules.

They’d talked a bit, to pass the time, after they’d cleaned their guns and checked their ammo. About their hometowns, mostly. Connor had tried gamely to stay awake with her, but the grind of the last thirty-six hours had finally caught up, swallowing him mid-sentence.

Her eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and she saw Connor plainly, curled on his side on the floor, one hand on his gun. So young. She turned back to the window, listening to the woods.

Day 69: Territory, Part II

But I do know that creature,
Asleep in the field beyond the fence.
It’s easier to turn my back.
Why should I look directly at it,
Search for its liquid iron mouth, or its accusing brown eye?
I’ll stay on the bank, hoping it doesn’t
Slither through the grass and
Pull me down by my ankle,
Or prowl on selfish red paws
Close enough to pounce on my shoulder.
That would be our miscarried conversation,
Violent, wordless, ferocious.
She lived in me until she didn’t, and now she’s
Out there, unburied,
A scent my dog can catch on the wind.

Day 68: Territory

There is a particular spot on the east bank of the pond.
When we reach it we stop, stand, consider
The neighboring field, over the fence,
Butting up to the timber.
My dog is especially solemn.
It’s a serious business, this.
Smells are tendrils on the wind, and he
Brings his nose up to meet them,
Parsing with a long neck and square chest.
I would try it too, if I were built that way,
But as it is, I’m fine not knowing
What creatures walk and eat and die there,
Who haunts the trees and hides among the grasses.

Day 67: Bluejean

When I was ten, I practically lived at my best friend’s house. She had an attic bedroom with three big windows, and a blue parakeet in a cage she’d cover at night.

I told my parents I wanted a parakeet, too. We’d had to give away our dog, who’d bite everyone who wasn’t my mom, and cats were out of the question.

My dad said no. He thought I was just copying my friend, which was probably correct. But when I look back, I can so easily see that our house was no place for the innocent energy of animals.

Day 66: Shadow

“Couples costumes are cheesy,” I said. “Let’s go to Touchdowns for burgers instead,” I said. But it’s my girlfriend’s sorority party and I can’t leave her hanging. Apparently, Captain Hook needs eyeliner.

“You’re going to love it,” Kenna says, smudging it with the pad of her finger. Her ginger-minty breath is warm on my cheek.

I’m about to say “Don’t poke my eye out,” but I’m quiet. She’ll be done faster if I stay still.

“All done.”

The mirror shows someone, me, I guess, but. My eyes, usually sad, are … intense, watchful. Dangerous. I stare.

“Holy shit.”

I’m fucking … beautiful.

Day 65: Keepsake

“Want to watch a movie?” I close my algebra book and grab the remote.

“Yeah, I can stay ’til nine.”

He scoots closer, pulling the crocheted blanket my grandma made from the back of the couch. It’s ugly as hell (navy blue with pink flowers) but she died, so my mom can’t get rid of it. He doesn’t mind, I guess, because he spreads it over our laps.

When I lean back, his arm is around me. I wonder what Gram would say if she could see us. If it would bother her that her roses are keeping us warm.

Day 64: High

It’s perfectly normal that she’s on the balcony,
Topless, three floors up,
Quinzième Arrondissement.
She does a back bend over the railing,
Wine-stained smile to the night sky.
“Sincerely,” I say. “Are you listening?”
Of course she isn’t.
I’m not sure she ever did.
In the smoke I am set aside, categorized, dismissed.
The picture I take of this moment
Is developed at a pharmacy, later, back home.
Her breasts in an envelope with
The Bateaux-Mouches and The Bastille.
The landlord is concerned we won’t pay our rent,
But there won’t ever be a drug as potent as her skin.

Day 63: Gaze

It occurs to me that the idea of “The Gaze” is a tricky one, when contemplating artworks and those who view them, because there is at once the Human Gaze, which we as persons experience as a collective, then the Gendered Gaze, where individuals encounter artwork as men, women, non-binary or agender, then the Aged Gaze, which considers the completely arbitrary measuring device of years alive on earth, not to mention the Race Gaze, the Colonized Gaze, and the Marginalized Gaze, all of which happen parallel to the Reflected Gaze, where the (inanimate and unconscious (?)) artwork itself regards the viewer.

Day 62: Lake House

Ellen’s the only one who could get me to jump.

I sit at the edge of the dock, my legs dangling into the brown water. I can’t see my feet, or the bottom of the lake, which Ellen says is at least ten feet below.

She’s a bobbing torso I splash with a cupped hand. “Scaredy-cat!” she calls, laughing, just like she did at the city pool when I froze on the high dive.

The water is her otherworld, opaque and soft, made up of everything I don’t know yet. I stand, the dock slick beneath my toes, and jump.

Day 61: Earring

I rolled over on it, half-asleep, and thought I’d been stabbed
Or stung by a bee somehow resting among the sheets.
It belongs to Helen.
Yellow shirt Helen, Helen whose hands are bigger than mine,
Ringless, fisted.
Helen across the table, who I couldn’t look in the eye.
She’s a throw-her-head-back-when-she-laughs woman,
An I’m-strong-enough-to-hold-you-up woman,
A leave-in-darkness-before-you-wake woman.
I tasted her earlobe, fitting the gold post between my teeth.
It yielded to my tongue, slept in my mouth,
And bit me good morning.