Absence

The gutters and the eaves
seem different
without him.
Even the grass
does not appear as green
as it once was.
The door jambs sag
in his absence.
The windows,
now hold a tainted reflection
when viewed from the outside lawn.
He is gone.
And the siding heaves in disapproval.
It used to be a loving home.
Walls that longed to hold their portraits
now feel naked and shunned.
She is the only one left.
It feels like a subduction of plate tectonics
ripped through its foundation
and rattled the normalcy apart.
This home, this house,
now weeps in crooked siding,
and chips of peeling paint
now that he is gone.

Things My Momma Never Told Me

So many things my Momma never told me:

In my fifth month of pregnancy
I sneezed
and peed
simultaneously.
I didn’t even know that was possible,
but it is.
It is also possible
to laugh,
And piss your pants,
or pass some gas
and poop your pants…
yep.
That happens too.

So many things my Momma never told me:

The “glow” that I had while pregnant
was really just swollen ankels.
Well, I mean cankles.
Socks never even fit.
Talk about barefoot and pregnant, I lived it!
Not to mention the inability to shit
in the morning.
Instead of dropping the kids off at the pool,
I was looking for pills to
Soften my stool
because prune juice is some nasty stuff.

So many things my Momma never told me:

I acquired super human abilities
while I was growing babies;
Such as the power to smell a rancid fart
from a mile away.
There is nothing quite like
the wafting rotting odor
of old man bowels in the grocery store-
two aisles over
from my selection of
canned goods.
My cankles kept me from running
Like I once could.
My gag reflex become spot on
and I could hurl on cue…just not on my shoes…
cause I couldn’t even see
nor wear  them bastards.

So many things my Momma never told me:

How do I shave my legs
when I can’t even see them?
I didn’t want to give birth
looking like a sasquatch
squatting in the forest.
This task required graceful balance
of which I had none.
But I did have a mirror, a tub,
and a belly as big as Santa Clause
who may or may not have eaten
his entire herd of reindeer.
Shaving legs while pregnant and swollen?
Easier said than done!

So many things my Momma never told me.
Thanks Mom, for all of your non-existent advice
A little heads-up would have been nice.

Community

He is no more your brother

than I am your sister.

But you still call him that.

Penises really bring people together.

Seymour

One by one
That monster brought Them home.
Evil wears a face
that looks human.
Bound and gagged in
its bedroom
its basement
in its rose-painted
rooms of terror
and debasement.
Selfish fucking monster.
It stole Them from their
Families, from their Lives of Promise
And Futures.
Plucked and tortured them with its vomitus
deprecating, lustful needs.
All Three.
What a wretched home it was made to be.

Ten years it kept Them.
Ten years of trying and crying
and dying inside
Ten years of intrusion and bruises
Ten years of fighting for Their will
just to survive.
Three thousand six hundred fifty days of
Torrential formidable darkness.
Eighty-seven thousand, six hundred hours
Of physical, spiritual, soul-shattering
body-battering infringement
made to suffer
at the hands of a revolting,
selfish fucking monster.

One of Them impregnated,
One of Them cooking its pancakes
and one of Them suffering
the shakes of starvation,
deprivation
and forced to be the midwife
for the baby it created.
Oh sweet holy hell on Earth.
She was made to give birth
in its shackled and dank dark basement.

But one day in May,
that monster forgot…
and ten years of torture
busted the locks into shards
trampled through its yard,
and set the rest of Them free.
It now swings,
From its neck with a sheet
burning in the flames
from where it whence came.
Ten years of torture
should never ever
utter its name.

One Man’s Hungry Revenge

He wore the guilt
like a feather boa.
Blithe plumage of debauchery
draped around his neck.
Undetected.
Just like the bodies in his basement.
His course was mute,
and he tried to be angelic in his ways,
but the beatings from his childhood days
always surfaced through.
He could not contain
that ravenous hunger         
    gifted to him by his step-fathers.

His mother wore a whore-coat
when he was little,
and she smothered his eyes in its sleeves.
Every night forced to hear her
cries of crack-cocaine,
calling different men’s names
as though she enjoyed the displeasure.
No wonder he ended up this way.
Hunting down disdain assholes.
The ones that beat children
into submission
and sell crack and women in the alley ways.
    He was skilled at what he did.

No sleep was lost at night and
he wore the guilt
and loss of life
like a feather boa.

Winter Withered Terribly

They found her
cold as stone
laying amongst the shrubs.

The mid-March sun
had wreaked havoc
on the frozen winter snow,
and melted the beauty
from her
face.

Her sorrow was everyplace,
sorted over by scavengers.
And they were scavengers
of the most wretched kind.

She was not what they
had hoped to find...
cold as stone,
all alone,
dead –
to the bone,
laying amongst
the shrubs.

Out on their morning walk
discussing their
new selection of coffee,
or how their
new home will be
put together.
that’s when they saw her.
Cold dead eyes
staring up through the frost.

The last remnants of
winter
withered terribly.
But the
blanket did not.

The blanket shall tell
their shameful stories.
The scavengers’ lies will
unfold
out of every once frozen
fiber.

The fibers-
once used for warmth,
and then,
used to quiet her-
will scream songs of
her travesty.
In a final honesty,
the fibers will weave a picture
of her last warm
breaths.

The blanket will
silhouette the scavengers
who laid her in death,
deep in the snow
to grow cold as stone,
laying amongst
the shrubs.

The last remnants of winter
withered terribly,
but the blanket did not.

-Molly

“Tweet, Tweet” Goes the Nightshade- by Molly

Secret Scene for and inspired by Trifles which was originally written by Susan Glaspell

SCENE: In the kitchen of the farmhouse of John and Minnie Wright, the room appears to be lit by kerosene lamps, with one lamp on the table in center of the room, and two lamps hanging on the left and right walls. Minnie Wright is standing at the counter by the sink kneading dough in a pan. There is a small, crumpled, brown paper bag next to the pan. She is wearing a drab dark blue skirt with an even darker blue long sleeved sweater with a white apron tied around her waist. (She is working vigorously at the dough). There are two pots on the table, with two place settings next to them; giving the appearance of dinner time. As Minnie is pounding the bread dough at the counter, the rear door opens and in walks John Wright, dressed in a heavy work coat, carrying a metal lunch pail. Minnie pauses, looks up at the cupboard doors but does not turn around to face her husband.

JOHN: Some lunch you packed me today woman. The bread was hard as rocks and tasted just the same. (Slams the lunch pail on counter next to Minnie – she jumps startled) See for yourself! Hope you have dinner ready this time. I haven’t had a shit thing to eat all day!

(John takes off his coat and hangs it behind the door leading to the upstairs of the house, walks over to the table and sits in the chair with his back to his wife. He is wearing a plaid shirt under denim overalls, appears to be middle aged and balding with a beard. He begins to dish some food out of the pots and onto a plate.)

JOHN: What did you make tonight?

MINNIE: I made turkey stew. I’m sorry about the bread. I’m making some new loaves right now. I thought I would try my hand at some of that Nettle Bread your Mom used to make.

(She goes over to the stove and pulls out a cast iron pot and places it on a towel on the counter, tips it over and a loaf rolls out onto a dishtowel. She begins to slice the loaf, putting several slices on a plate and setting it near her husband at the table.)

JOHN: It’s still hot, good! Where’s the butter?

MINNIE: (Glaring at her husband from behind him) It’s there on the table, between the pots.

(John grabs a knife full of butter and begins slathering his bread, and takes a bite.)

JOHN: Well it’s still too hot to tell if it’s any good or not, but I’m hungry enough. (Still chewing, he looks up at the ceiling) We ain’t getting no damn telephone. You know that, right woman?

MINNIE: I never asked for one John. (She begins to place some of the new dough into the same cast iron pot the other loaf came out of, and throws a towel over the rest of the dough.)

JOHN: Yah, well you never asked for no damn bird either, but you got one of them, didn’t ya? Good thing I took care of that pretty little thing this morning. I tolerated its noise long enough! I don’t want no other damn noisy contraptions in this house. Bad enough I gotta listen to you hum yer damn songs while yer knittin and rocking away. Give me a goddamn headache! (John starts to stretch out his arms and begins to yawn extensively) We ain’t getting a telephone, no way. (He takes another bite of his bread, this time slopping some turkey stew on top of it.)

MINNIE: That’s just fine John. I wouldn’t want a telephone anyway. Who on earth would I want to talk to? (She takes the pot over to the oven and slides it in with a towel. She wipes her hands off on her apron, leaving a smudge, then walks back to the counter and grabs a small paper bag sitting by the bread pan and shoves it into the fire of the stove.)

JOHN: Are you sure this is Nettle Bread? It tastes (eyeballing his piece of bread in his hand) different than I recall. (Sets the bread down and yawns long and loud.)

MINNIE: (Standing at the counter, one hand on her hip, one hand on the loaf of bread on the counter, looks toward her husband with a glare) No, I’m not sure. Come to think of it, I may have used the wrong nettles. Why this might be nightshade bread, my mistake John. Does it taste ok?

JOHN: (Looking confused and a little dazed) Nightshade bread? What the hell is (he is interrupted by a long lengthy yawn, and looks as though he might pass out at the table) that?

MINNIE: It’s an herb John. Are you feeling ok? (Still glaring at her husband from behind)

JOHN: Yes woman, I am fine. Now fetch me my slippers, I may go lay down for a bit.

(Minnie leaves the room and returns with men’s slippers in hand. She sets them down at her husband’s feet and he appears to have some trouble with slipping them on. Minnie bends down to help him, and he shoves her to the floor with his leg.)

JOHN: Get outta my way! I can put my own damn slippers on!

(John gets up, and clumsily walks to the door where he had hung his coat, opens it and stumbles up the stairs. There are loud thudding sounds to be heard until finally, we hear the creaking of noisy bed springs. Minnie shuffles up off the floor, wiping her hands on her apron again and turns to go out of the room. She returns to the kitchen carrying a small bird cage with the door of it left open, it is flapping and rattling against itself. Minnie places the bird cage in one of the kitchen cupboards then carefully pulls a small bird carcass out of the cage, and wraps it gently in a piece of silk from her apron pocket then shuts the cupboard door.

MINNIE: (To the bird carcass cradled in her hands) He won’t hurt us anymore my sweet thing. He won’t hurt us anymore. (She kisses the dead bird and slides it into her apron pocket.)

She then turns to one of the kitchen drawers, opens it and pulls out a bundle of white rope and places it on the kitchen table. She stands up tall, looks at the rope and smiles. She then continues to clear dinner off of the table, placing pots and pans under the sink. She goes to the oven and pulls out the cast iron pot, takes it to the counter, flips out the loaf of bread and places it near the breadbox. She puts the pot back on the stove, grabs the bundle of rope slowly and leans against the upstairs door, listening. Minnie looks around the room, opens the upstairs door and disappears off stage to the upstairs. There is the sound of her light footsteps going up the stairs, with a long pause followed by the sound of creaking bed springs. Then there is a sudden loud thud and scratching noises followed by quick footsteps coming down the stairs. Minnie reappears on stage coming through the stairs door. She closes the door behind herself, sits at the kitchen table, and begins to hum as she cradles the silk-wrapped dead bird.

END SCENE

Her Mindful

Her mind was a melting pot
of bodacious goodness.
Effortlessly lapping up the
wet and crunchy crumbs
that fell around life.
Those little bits gone unnoticed
by the drones in the world.
Those round and fuzzy,
squared-off bits kicked under the
dusty rugs.
She soaked them all up
like a sponge…
in gasoline…
lit a match and let them burn
hot and smoldering
before the daily masses.
She was a wizardress…some sorceress…
A warlock’s wet, cerebral dream.
I fell in love with her
front and temporal lobes.
Every time she would undress them
and speak her bodacious reflections,
I wanted to melt into her Broca’s area
and wrap myself into her
sensory cortex.
Thinking the deep thoughts
that the sheep threw into the trash…
labeled fodder.
Her mind was a melting pot
of bodacious goodness that soldered
every crevice of my cerebellum .
That fierce, ferocious, crumb sucking
Sorceress has scarred me
with her molten flame.
My brainstem will never
be the same.
Her mind has changed me.

This was originally published in Black Hawk College's annual literary magazine - "Voices" in the spring of this year. I have been toggling back and forth on whether or not to share it here. I decided it would be therapeutic to share this with you all. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy remembering these Memories of My Awesome Dad.

Memories of My Awesome Dad

I recall the crackling embers
dancing like fireflies in the late August night.
Sipping my Aldi grape soda you’d say-
“Hey MollyWog,
why don’t you throw another log on the fire?”
and we’d sit back
and eat our flame charred hot dogs
off of cattail sticks
while you lined up beer cans
on the railroad tie.
Nine o’clock would roll around
and we’d point out Mars hanging low in the sky...
that glowing orange globe
creeping across the Milky Way.
Hey, those were the days, weren’t they Dad?
We would talk for hours,
sometimes till the coyotes came home.
We’d just let our minds roam…
discussing the deep dark heavens
and all the mysteries held beneath them.
The colossal pyramids in ancient Egypt
with five thousand year old batteries
churning up in the sands,
theories on whether they were ever built by human hands,
we never quite thought so.
Easter Island and its giant stone heads,
Snakes formed from hillsides,
hidden from our eyes,
and only found in Time Life books.
Spontaneous Human Combustion
would be a horrific way to die.
UFOs in the sky,
and how old Bud Hoots must have missed his ride,
forever phoning home.
That strange man sold bicycles and built fires
fueled by purses and shoes
in his gravel drive.
We often wondered who those purses and shoes belonged to,
and what old Bud Hoots did with the bodies…
but we never really wanted to know.
I recall your laughter
after every joke you ever told.
I recall smelling the wet grass
mixed with ash,
and the musty odor of cows in the field.
Little did I know,
that time spent with you
I would want to steal
over and over again.
You were more than my Dad,
you were my friend,
and you helped build me.
I recall the crackling embers…
just like the sparkle in your eyes…
maybe it was pride
As I blasted those PBR beer cans
off that old rail road tie
with your double barrel twelve gauge
that was bigger than I.
It bruised my shoulder and laid me flat on my ass,
and you laughed until you cried.
Late summer nights spent by your side.
Sure wish we could
Just pack up your grey Ford pickup,
and go for one last ride.

The Painted Lady

Some say
she was made a fool of
by the man that she loved
back
in a day that wasn't wrinkled.

Some say he stepped out
and broke her heart
with the skin of a white lady.

Caucasian strangulation
of a darker skinned soul.

Maybe.

Some say she was just crazy.
Painted her face
whiter than a bed sheet
and prowled around town
in her Broadway Best.

Maybe she couldn’t be tamed.
Maybe she wouldn’t be named,
and blamed an ignorant society
for not understanding
the Artistry of her soul.

Fuchsia garments and
white lace gloves
never allowed her pigment
to show.

Nobody knows why
she painted her skin.
Nobody knows why she chose
to sleep with a dark face in,
yet rise out in paper-white.

That is her secret.
And she will keep it.

Tucked deep inside her
Aqua-marine, turquoise green
Lavender-rose,
bright yellow clothes
with wigs of flowing f aux hair.

Yes, the Painted Lady will
keep her secret where
she lies,
for she has died,
and taken her artistry to the grave.

Poetry, My Friend.

Why do I love Poetry?

Because poetry,

 is painting with words.

It is a love of linguistics that allows for anything.

It is phonics that fills the soul with warm embraces,

Tattered laces

And strangled nooses.

In poetry, I can feel anything

without fear of judgment.

In poetry,

I can make people swim with the fishes while wearing

Boots of cement.

In poetry,

I can make my wildest dreams come to fruition.

It is intuition,

And a snuggled up, warm bed.

Poetry bundles, and fumbles, and crumbles

All of the abstract thoughts

Out of my head.

Poetry, allows for living instead

Of dying in societal jargon.

Poetry… is my most valuable friend.

Wicked, Wicked Breath

There is a breath of wicked fire….
Called Deceit and Lies….
To wonder of which you do conspire….
to form your dishonest verbal franchise.
They make you bold and think you proud
To feel so fit to spit the words
in the ways you do so well.
There is a breath of wicked fire…
And you have breathed it with force
and fury….
seemed so mighty to call a judgment
way before there was ever a need for a jury.
Be careful, and be wary….
for the flames are burning.
You may get caught in the back-draft….
For there is a breath of wicked fire….
And it is called Deceit and Lies.

-Molly