Fireflies
Acceptance is like that finger trap-- you have to relax into it, move with its weaves, or else you are stuck, like a swimmer in a rip current, resistance will wear you down. I don’t notice until I’m polished, shiny, and worn like the beads cascading in jubilation down Cross Street after I break my favorite bracelet against the mural that reads Welcome to Ypslilanti! How’s that for irony/ how’s that for a jaded, cynical nougat at the center of the poem? I bust my knuckles against a concrete wall because I’m one minute behind the parking meter, Ain’t that just my luck? And the most hated woman in Ypsilanti is walking away from me. The thing is, I would rather hurt myself, and so I do. I only call her vulture in the story I will tell later. It’s funnier that way/the way I will tell it. Nearly in ruins, I can cover any wound in ink and call it a joke. I can cover my mouth while crying and make it look like I’m in stitches. The quiet night comes in the form of many stars slowly blurring into focus. I bought the bracelet because it refracted light in blues and greens-- the beads I gather from the street twinkle in my palm like fireflies. Tomorrow I will string them together again, as I do. Ode to a Broken Rubber Heart, Drowned in the Rain Outside the Bar Here’s the thing about the heart: I kicked it down the road a ways, having time to kill before meeting you for happy hour. I brought the toy in and set it on the bar where it leaked its rainy juices, and the bartender set out two glasses for us, kindred spirits. We shared a pitcher on special and the heart told me about how it used to run on AA batteries, but now it just runs from AA meetings. We had a good laugh. My heart often feels like a ball of rubber bands poised to snap, but I did not tell the heart that, as you were just arriving, rain soaked and confused about my new friend. You didn’t want to touch the heart, and I couldn’t blame you. Couldn’t make you feel the moment surrounding us, sanguine music and strange chatter. Couldn’t stub out the cigarette you used easier than air. Couldn’t make you flinch when the heart lobbed itself onto a barstool and said the next round of shots was on it, a $20 bill sprouting suddenly from its left ventricle. We both reached for the numbing agents and I am not sorry for inoculating my skin so when it tears I can be ready, so when scabs grow I can pick them absentminded in the car, watching myself from the backseat, so I can tell the rearview mirror to do as I say, not as I do. Two lights shrinking back into the night: me and you. Here’s the last thing: I have already lost it, the heart. It was a mistake to underestimate the rubber thing to be less than a metaphor for everything missing, and so it must be gone from me to mean anything at all. Trauma Response I have revenge fantasies involving vaseline on the handles of all your doors. I don’t want to kill you, only scare you into doing what I want. A warning shot. A doe and her fawn study me as I walk by on a path, And she could kill me, but she doesn’t. She has more mercy than me, wishing me well, And asking, curiously, “what are you afraid of?” I almost say, “myself.” (KD Williams is a nonbinary writer. They teach at local colleges and received their undergraduate degree from the University of Michigan. They earned an MFA from Stony Brook Southampton where they received the Stony Brook Short Fiction Award. Their work has been published in The Southampton Review and other publications.)
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Bird Song in my Pediatric Office
COVID Pandemic, 2020 Canaries should sing effortlessly their voices surprising from beings so small It is what I love about teenagers unafraid and clear-eyed they tell us what we hadn’t thought to notice some more crow than songbird, Stellar’s jay boisterous beside warblers. I coo, dove-like, encourage the chatter. These seers might trill and call, sharing the hawk’s view on impending storms; or sometimes chirp joyfully, bedazzled by shiny bits they collect like reassurances. But lately instead of peeping I hear screeching or worse than that silence. Driving my son to soccer practice Remember that park, he asks, where we used butterfly nets to catch dragonflies? I envision fragile wings crushed by eager hands, callous mesh. My heart would not have forgotten. It sounds lovely, I say. We did, he insists, I dream about it: that stream, and yellow flowers. We had nets, I know, a gift meant to tickle a child’s fascination, entice him to chase flight. But no, he never ran after that particular magic. He would have played with mud, drowning shoes and pantlegs making sun-bright spray kicking the water, delighted. Now he is twelve and though we drive to and fro after a different dream, his thoughts rarely escape into daylight. Remember? he asks. I want to say yes - but no, my son, I only gave you tools and soil. What you capture in sleep is your own luminescence. (Claire Unis MD MFA, is a pediatrician and author of several published personal essays. I earned my MFA while in medical school and now teach literature and writing classes to my fellow physicians as part of a clinician wellness program aimed to counteract burnout among my medical peers. More information about me is available on my website, www.claireunis.net.) Lost and Found
On a day in my life as I wandered around I discovered a window that said Lost and Found. “Excuse me.” I said. “My fingers are crossed. I hope you can help me. My self has been lost. I once thought I saw it. It can’t have gone far But it’s straggled off and it’s truly bizarre.” “What does it look like?” the nice lady said. “I just can’t remember but I know that it’s fled.” With a sweet helpful smile she reached for a shelf and picked up a limp rag. “Could this be your self?” With a cursory glance a quick recognition I knew that I found it and accomplished my mission. “Malnourished,” she said. Please feed it a feast you’d better take care before it’s deceased. You’ve spent a long time as a wandering searcher but now is the time to coddle and nurture.” I took my limp self Held onto it tight and made it a promise no sorrow or fright I fed it and loved it we learned how to play. It grew brighter and happier with each passing day The crisis averted it’s just oh so grand as me and my self skip off hand in hand. |
The Beautiful Space-
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