06:
Wrapped in Creole summer,
having mastered the art of fan and swat
I was swinging, mindless in a swelter of midges.
Cotton gauze hung dank at the windows.
An arousal of magnolia hovered,
cut by the bittersweet bite of julep. Pressing
the sweaty glass against my forehead
I willed the migraine to bay.
Cicada rasps punctuated sprinkler hisses.
Songfree birds were too hot to twitter;
croakless frogs too dry to plead for rain.
Raw and heat-shocked, the sky was colorless
but for a violet haze low on the southern horizon.
A sudden silence
punctuated by warm blasts of air roused me
as violet sunk to purple, then began to wick
up the vast expanse of cloudless sky.
Tendrils of wind teased my hair;
grown bolder, struck the clothesline
whipping cotton sheets into frenzy.
I hit the ground running
as hailstones peppered down, their sting
hindered all attempts to corral the bedsheets.
Purple plunged to black, roiled and rumbled:
a fork-tongued beast spitting fire and ice
galloped a gale across the flatlands,
dismissing me without a backward glance.
by Freada Dillon © 2004
06:
My rush to leave this place has dwindled to a trickle,
all attempts to move on damned
by this or that. Resigned,
and heading to the market for summer melons,
I take a turn passed a pond
that has been constant at the corner
of my vision for over 30 years: each spring
reflecting migrations of geese; summer
shimmering with midges; each autumn
stopover for returning geese, southbound.
Recent deluges should have swelled the pond, yet
this steamy morning I realize its dwindling.
I drive by slowly, scanning the rim for evidence of a breach,
make note of jagged strips of exposed pond bottom,
find no obvious reason for this slow retreat.
At this rate, the pond will relocate sooner than I.
Imagination takes me forward to autumn
and a ‘V’ of geese winging south
finding no familiar place to feed and rest
reflected only in my tears, as they continue on and I stay.
by Freada Dillon © 2004
06:
for Joe
Past midnight, lost in Frost, I pause–
something about you calls my attention.
My thoughts stray.
Covers chin-tucked-tight, you sign and snuffle.
My book slips. I lose my place, as
in sleep, innocence reclaims you.
Eyes squeezed tight against the light,
lashes curl and splay.
It’s at the bridge, Rome concurs your Celtic nose.
Your heritage is carven in your face.
Jawline, square and sleek when shaven,
is now etched in work-a-day scruff
of another brutal day.
You, as a study in sleep, still quicken me
though we’ve pulled long in the traces.
But it’s these hands, gently curved in repose,
battered, scarred and calloused, I gaze at long
in shadow play.
Hands that anoint and bless and heal
speak most to me, with eloquent grace.
by Freada Dillon © 2004
06:
News of my death is premature. So sizing
up the day, I find it may be worth arising.
Faltering, I stumble on my own distress
but carry on: the dogs demand it. I must dress,
for knowing nothing of despair
they both demand my constant care.
The squirrels are counting on my apple peel.
I must prepare us all a meal.
It rained last night, the stormy lash
and grumble matched my mood, a splash
of tea kept me computing till dawn:
solitaire a bore, my poetry a yawn.
But birds need seed. Their feeders, filled with rain
must be replaced. Tapping on my windowpane
impatient cardinal pairs awaiting me
along with one insistent chickadee
lead me to say I shall not die today.
Please, put my epitaph away.
by Freada Dillon © 2004
07:
by Paul A. Toth
The bride has three brothers. I hope they kill me.
I’m still in church, sweat boiling over, burbling, draining down my neck until I might as well have worn a muscle shirt.
Look now, look…and never see her again. Older — both of us, of course. If together still, we would share arguments drained of suspense, like the final battles of a war. But one must finish a war even if the climax has passed.
They kiss.
Ding-dong, like the Pope just got married.
I walk the line of relatives. I might raise my hand to give them five, then slap them in a row, one face after the next. Then the bride, the groom. The things I could say. I’d make Emily Post do the bone jangle, milk that calcium for all its worth.
The invitation: “Please come.” Extension class calligraphy, scribbled lies. Might as well have added, “P.S.: I’m not serious. Don’t come.”
Butterflies aloft, as if they hadn’t been free before capture. Rice against attorney’s orders. Birds chirp. I’m Elmer Fudd.
Forgiveness? I try. I count my breaths the way I do at night. Will revenge sleep? No, I lose count fast. Meditation works only when I don’t need it. I get in a jam, there’s no Zen to chill my fever, no Buddha papa, just heat and fear. Confucius? He’s with Emily Post.
To all you seers, your wisdom radioactive, bright but carcinogenic, I tell you I harbor malignant thoughts about to sail. I’m not the center? Then what am I? If I look every direction, spin 360 degrees, where exactly am I in this circle? The middle, the center, that’s where. Stop talking. I don’t speak the language. Use plain terminology, would you? I need Valium, not vavattháána. I pray for terrorist attack. Allahu Akbar.
Catholics, all of them, come from Persia to Los Angeles. They got with Christ in the San Fernando Valley. Carpenters and gardeners dressed like million dollar bill rakers. I, the Sultan of Schenectady, wear Sears. How the hell did I end up in Schenectady? I moved from California for a teaching post. I teach pre-prison. “Learn your ABCs so you can write your Congressman for clemency.” That’s what I teach.
I was here first. My whole family was here before them. Nobody even knows I’m Persian. I say I’m Hungarian, like Bela Lugosi. Saves trouble. I don’t want to hear it: “We know you Arabs aren’t all the same.” That’s correct. Allah? Give me a break. I watch cartoons. Don’t start with Jesus, either. Big deal, “Say ‘hi’ to your neighbors.” Fuck the neighbors and their 24-7 lawn mowers.
It’s a long drive to the reception at some VFW hall. They’ll have the place rigged to look like Christmas at Mecca. I drive the usual LA freeways, jets audible through my Hyundai sunroof. I turn up the love music station, to keep the spirits low and moaning. I poke Casper in the ribs: “Your friendly days are over.”
I arrive and park, purposefully taking two spots with the slant of my car. Some golf clubhouse, barely private. They belong to a private golf club, and that’s all that matters.
A late wedding. Now it’s almost dark. I climb the stairs to the top-floor reception room. I’m drunk on something, serotonin, hormones, something, but I head straight to the bar. I knock ‘em back, the bartender watching.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“‘Yes’ what?”
“Trouble. There will be.”
“I just pour the drinks. I’m not responsible.”
“Fair enough.”
Soon, everyone stomps and rejoices as the couple shares cake and kisses. I’m still at the bar.
“Take cover,” the bartender says. “They’re almost to the bunny hop.”
They line up. Now’s my chance. I join the procession of rabbits arabesque — I mean Persian — and luck finds me behind my ex-girlfriend’s mother. She looks back at me: “You didn’t have to come just because you were invited.” That’s what she wants to say, and she does so without opening her mouth. I smile. We bounce. Hoppity-hop we go, the DJ shouting “Ho!” as we zigzag across the dance floor.
I move closer to the mother. I’ve never seen rabbits do it, so I copy dogs. I’m humping along like Daffy Duck dodging bullets. The mother grabs the waist in front of her and tries to move away, but she only pulls me tighter, tighter.
And so they come, the brothers. They yank me away and push me toward the stairs. I see my ex-girlfriend smile as they shove me down two steps at a time until I’m falling, except one has my collar in hand. At bottom, he lets go. I tumble out the doorway and into the parking lot. They stand over me like three kings.
“You’re lucky we’re Christians,” one says.
“Allahu Akbar.”
“What? You weren’t Muslim before. Now, you’re nothing.”
“Zero,” the second says.
“Nothing,” the third adds, making an “okay” sign in front of his eye and peering through it. “Donut hole.”
“Get lost.”
I drive to the nearest 7-11. I drop change into the pay phone and dial the number.
“There’s a bomb in the clubhouse. It goes off at midnight.”
By the time I arrive back at the club, they’re streaming out, laughing as if it’s the funniest potential terrorist attack they’d ever heard about. The cars zoom away, honking, swerving, the limousine with the streamers giving a nice lesson in perspective as it zeroes away from me into a disappearing dot.
“Allahu Akbar,” I say to myself. “Boom.”
I hear sirens and pull onto the road, toward the vanished procession. I am following them into the future, but they are leaving me in the past.
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