waiting for her

Early morning, late January. Chunks of sun-stressed ice fell from the gutters outside

while I waited for her eyes to open.

Clenching my arm, her grip betrayed tranquility.

She constantly demanded attention, even in slumber.

I stared at this silent version of her, one which finally received respite

from the demons it spent each waking hour sparring.

I watched and waited, for her eyes to open.

Artist: Wendy Heldmann

sugar sunday

They sat in their underwear on his gold velvet couch, eating doughnuts like unsupervised children.

Glazed lips and powdery breath fused sugar smiles, while morning became afternoon, somewhere else.

(Photo: self)

roy g. biv

And I kissed him and he kissed me back so softly, like an insect’s cellophane wing, a miniature stained glass window so fine it's almost invisible. He was a prism’s glint at the right angle, the multicolored echo in an oil stain when viewed in the proper light.

Artist: Jonathan Viner

off-season

I looked for shells- the ridged, potato chip kind- and baby sand dollars mostly. Sea glass was scarce there. I had stopped searching for it long ago.

Ankle deep in the September water, I bent down and dipped a perfect half clam just below the surface, careful not to collect too much sand. I sipped the freezing brine, then scooped up another and yelled against the current for him to come taste it.

From up the beach he could see my mouth moving, but the wind had stolen my words.

Photo: Natacha Merritt

streetsaint

As I approached the intersection, I looked up through streaked eyes and noticed a businessman, perhaps even a young father, walking towards me from the opposite direction. Our eyes met and I felt my lip break and for a moment, as he drew closer, I thought he might take me in his arms.

And he did. And I let him, the pair of us standing there on the corner in a silent embrace, his suit jacket scratching my cheek and absorbing the runoff from my wet face. Then with a tight squeeze, like punctuation, he gently freed himself and continued on, leaving me there to wonder if it had ever happened at all.

(Artist: unknown)

bodybag

She was almost glad olfactory privilege had escaped her, so each night when she returned home from work she didn't have to smell those lilies, permeating the apartment like a funeral home.

They had arrived at her office on the morning of her twenty-eighth birthday. She remembered guilty disappointment when the contents of the shrunken envelope revealed that they were sent by her parents instead of him. She took the flowers home that night after dropping the card in the trash under her desk. The florist had misspelled her name.

After nearly a week of mentally coaxing them to expire, the last stalk in the bunch quit. Setting the vase on the kitchen counter, she threw a black plastic garbage bag over the whole mess, a miniature abduction. Sealing the bag tight, she left it by the front door, where it waited to be carted out of her life like so many prior letdowns.

Artist: Ernesto Caivano