Two months. It had been two months since I’d been in his presence, and I was more than anxious. I’d flushed the Tylenol 3′s the night before, knowing I had a tendency for abusing them, especially in his company, and I was sure he hadn’t been sober. He’d been smoking synthetic to pass a drug test if I wanted him to, but I wouldn’t make him.

“He looks just like his father,” Rita smiled the words. “Have you looked at baby pictures? Does he look like Autumn? Does he look like you when you were a baby?”

“I haven’t,” I said. I tried to keep all my sentences short with his mother. Who knew what she would turn around on me?

Mark and Jim were hauling in Jim’s garbage bags of stuff he’d had, and a few of our boxes we’d left at their house. Things I had worked to get on my own in the past two months: a few pots and pans, dishes, towels. Little household things you forget about until you don’t have them. I’d been substitute teaching and making just two hundred bucks a month, but I made it work and had an apartment for me and Autumn and baby Jordan in public housing. It wasn’t posh but it was mine. And I felt free.

For weeks, I had prayed that he would come back to me a changed man. I prayed that he would be honest. I’d hoped he’d get a job and a home for us, and we would come to live with him. Of course, that wasn’t what he wanted.

“I have some stipulations, though, when you come,” I’d said on the phone. A call I had made. He never called.

“I understand, and, like I said--”

“No, I’m serious. You can stay here for two weeks to see Jordan but then you have to go to the shelter and get your own place and whenever I see that you are being an adult we will come be with you.”

“Yea..." Pause. Feign listening. Change the subject. "I talked to Bobby today. Him and Malory are doing well.”

I fought the urge to tell him again my requirements.

A few days before I went to the hospital I told Jim to wait to come down. “Why don’t you work until the end of the week and make more money. We’ll need it. And then you come down and be with us.”

“I want to be there,” he’d said, but there was no fight. He accepted the terms, and four days after Jordan’s birth, here I sat in my little living room, wishing with all my being he was not coming back.

What had I been pining for all that time? When I wasn’t focused on how lonely I thought I was, I felt so free. Why had I been so intent on having him at home? I’d realized how little I needed him in that delivery room, but it seemed too late to tell him to stay with his mom and dad. They wouldn’t have him anyway. He’s good at wearing people out, burning bridges, using people up.

The tension thickened as they brought up the last of the boxes and I was forced into conversation about how my life had been going and what I had been up to these two months. I snipped through it and spent as much time talking about Autumn and the pregnancy as possible, but I wasn’t my usual conversational self. Jim’s elephant filled up the room for me. Had he been sober? Had he really spent all the money my grandparents and sent to bail him out of his legal mess on “food and taking care of himself?” Had he really not been able to find a job? Day labor was all he could get and that money, too, went to food? Not that he had paid anything to our debt or any of his fines.

When Mark and Rita finally left, Jim hugged me, and the warmth I had hoped for was sand paper.

I guess that’s what “they” mean then, when they say, “be careful what you wish for.” I had cried in hospital waiting rooms watching children entertained by their fathers while their expectant mothers were in the office. I had wept in my bed clutching his pillow, but in the moment when you would expect one to wish they were clinging to their husband, as I squatted, pushing his son’s life into fruition, I was grateful he wasn’t there.

I chose to try to think of his return was the beginning of our new life together. Really, it was the beginning of the end, but that was two years in the making.

“Fill it up.”

I held the little blue sachet, probably three inches squared, in front of an old wooden rack of herbs which sat atop a few silky colorful scarves and was surrounded by trinkets and baubles and stones of all colors. The ancient black woman who’d given me the bag, sat about ten feet away, smoking a cigar at a table covered similarly in scarves and layers of material. I could feel her watching me. The rack held small square bowls in wire holders, each one with a supposedly different magical plant, though they all looked the same to me. I glanced back at the woman but there seemed to be no change in her posture or face. I wondered if she had moved anything but her jaw, lips and tongue. I hurriedly chose fingerfuls of five of the little bowls and shoved them unceremoniously into the pouch.

An hour ago, we had been at the beach, watching the sun go down. Corinda swam, though it was getting cool out. The sun was setting. “Last wishes,” she’d said, and stripped down to her underwear, her tits flopping side to side as she jogged into the water. I smiled watching her. She was less than genuine most days. Her stories never seemed to carry with them the appropriate facial expression or tempo, and one could almost never tell if they were true. This moment, though, was real. I could feel her pain and happiness as she stood up to catch the sun drift below the horizon, and then jogged back to me and donned her clothes.

As we walked along the beach, a carnival came into view, and Corinda become elated. “Let’s check it out,” she’d said, more an order than a request, and I followed behind her excited steps, my feet sliding in the sand.

Almost immediately Corinda saw an opportunity in a couple who were quite distracted by the taste of each other’s mouths and slipped a wallet from their unsuspecting purse. I stood a few feet away where I could pretend to watch a little boy swing the mallet on an old-time strength game and cause a scene if there was any trouble, but she was beside me shortly, pulling me away. We shared some fried pickles and a funnel cake, the only thing we’d eaten that day, and I began to feel some of her excitement, my belly welcoming the overdue filling.

When we came to the fortune teller, she traipsed through the door, but I lagged behind. I’d follow her anywhere, but this was too much. I had no patience for pretend psychics and rigged readings. I wouldn’t follow her in. I’d wait at the door of the tent and watch the passersby. A few minutes passed and she emerged, looking disappointed.

“She won’t see me.”

“Just as well,” I said, and started to walk on.

“No.” Corinda was stern, serious. It was a look I had only seen once, a week ago at the oncologist when she’d been told she had six weeks left.

“What?” My impatience showed.

“She won’t see me. She wants to see you.”

“Why me? Why’d you tell her I was out here?” I felt angry, but I didn’t want her to know. I chastised myself for questioning her. “I’m sorry. I just hate psychics.” I made little bunny ears with my hands around the word.

“I didn’t tell her you were here,” she said, defeated.

“Well, come on,” I sighed and waved my hand at the tent for her to go in, but she shook her head.

“Just you.”

I sighed audibly and entered. It was heavy with smoke, and the old woman held up the blue pouch between her finger and thumb. Her nails were at least and inch and a half long and adorned with jewels.

“Heh,” I scoffed, thinking about how much it must cost for those nails to be kept up. ‘She must make a ton of money off people like Corinda,’ I thought.

“Take it,” she growled. Her voice sounded like tires on gravel, and though I wanted to stand just inside for a few minutes, long enough to appease Corinda, and then leave the shit show, I walked to her and grasped the bag. She motioned her cigar at the rack and table, and my legs moved to it, maneuvering around mystic relics that I cynically thought of as movie props and stood at the table.

Once I’d filled the bag, her cigar hand welcomed me to sit at the table and my legs once again walked to where she’d asked.

“Sit,” her voice gurgled. I sat. She held out her hand and I placed the bag in it. “Nina,” she whispered, “weathered, weary soul.”

My heart quickened. Surely Corinda had told her my name.

“You doubt much,” she continued and closed her fingers around the bag. With her cigar in her mouth, she lit a candle on the table and placed the bag in a brass bowl beside it. In my mind, I saw myself taking the cigar and setting fire to the tent with the old woman and myself inside. I imagined Corinda running in to see me and the old witch sitting at the table, unmoved as the tent burned.

“You are not afraid of death,” came the woman’s growl, “but you will not burn tonight.”

I tried to hide my surprise and hoped the darkness and smoke covered my wide eyes. Lighting another match, the woman shifted in her seat and removed the cigar from her mouth, touching the little fire to the blue bag. It lit immediately and filled the room with a sweet, calming aroma. I felt as though I were drifting in the wind. I could hear the woman speaking, her scratching voice sliding into me, but I could not hear the words, and then I felt a sharp pain in my back on the left side.

“Corinda...” I felt the name come from my lungs.

“I’m here,” came her voice in my ear. “Let go.”

My eyes fluttered open to see her face, and the ceiling. Lieing on the floor, in her lap, in her arms, I felt a glowing pain. Her eyes were bright. She grasped something behind me and then the pain again, so excruciating I cried out. I could hear the woman chanting as Corinda held up her and the knife we’d decided on. The knife she’d given me and begged me to end it with. “We’ll go to the beach,” she’d said. “And we’ll stay in the van and when I’m ready, we’ll go into the ocean and do it there.”

“You’re sure?” We’d had the conversation over and over, but when the doctors gave her the news, it finally seemed like more than a dieing woman’s desperate thoughts. It was real then. That face told me it was real. And I’d agreed. “Anything. I would to anything for you.”

Holding me there, Corinda smiled, the blood streaming down her hand and wrist. “Anything, Nina. You would do anything,” she said. Her chest was heaving and even in the dark and smokey tent, I could see her skin was flushed. My breath was failing. I could only muster a short and gurgled, “Anything for you.”

The right hand gate

The gravel drive

It all looks the same

Except his house

Has a garden now

I’m sure he didn’t plant

I turned at what had been my step

360

Remembering

And you walked me back

Four, five steps

And we stood on the walk

Remembering

When I told you to leave

When you first told me

You loved me

The memories competing for prevalence

You asked

“You remember? This is where we were..”

Ten years prior

and before I was afraid of being home alone

Where you kissed me and said goodbye

To go to work

And you hesitated

“I have to tell you something..”

My young wild heart told you no

Not to call

And your head hung as you walked

But this time

As the war was fought

between the fear that lived there

And the love you brought

I chose you.

Faceless

The poison

The beautiful poison

But it could still smile

And it was doing just that

And laughing

At the blood on the floor

And the children's easel

And the side of the car

Streaked red-brown.

When the cops let me back in

I guzzled more of the ice cold bitch

And she laughed at me

And burned my insides

But that was the last time.

They say you love your abusers.

Love them in fear

and in desperation.

Love them as they

tear away everything

As you build walls

to protect

you

from them.

You love them.

That frigid bitch

I put her back in the freezer.

You can't keep the snow

The half life miracle goes quick on hot hands

Especially in Oklahoma

Even if you put it in the freezer

The flakes die

Melt and solidify again

Like memories

Or dreams

Or the point I wanted to make

That I made

And remade

And with it battered and browbeat

The people I "loved"

So much energy spent creating

Rapid fire responses

To unmade arguments

"What are you driving at?"

Play that song again

"Pull yourself together, man!"

And the road will soothe you

Pulling the wheel

Missing the ruts

Remembering the toxic leak

And the bare tread

Hearing the chirp

Driving at the moon.

Unfinished business

Was my ticket

To a long line

Of loosening my grip

Used

Both of us

Used

I never bought into any sense of self

You'd think

After how much I had to say

I'd have believed something

Trusted something enough

To

Whatever it is you do

When you have faith

I miss ticking clocks

The digital watch

Doesn't quantify the weight

(The wait)

Quite the same

Speed of time and space

Solidified in a little

Clicking

Line

And that's the short of it

But we know I've got words to spare

But not nearly enough

Whatever it is you need

To accomplish something

I'm hot

The air is on in here

The sheet curtain is billowing its agreement

There are no arguments from the cold linoleum or

The semi freshly air dried laundry

Waiting on me

I seek pleasant sugar

And long for sleep

And I'll get it

I'll get everything

I talk

In hopes I'll stop

thinking

And start doing

Whatever it is

And pass through the torrent

Of this waking life

(As if the dream would be better)

And they say not to fight

They say

Hold your head up to the light

They say

The sun'll come the fuck out

And it does

It fucking does

Stuck behind

a semi

traveling

at a

snail's pace,

I read:

DON'T FOLLOW ME...

FOLLOW JESUS --

written

on the back door

in big block

letters

for all

to see.

I can't believe

my eyes.

Now I've seen

everything.

Seriously,

who does this guy

think he is?

Annoyed,

I signal

to change

lanes,

then step

on the gas

and go around him.

Now he's

following me.

I wonder

Does the flower postulate

Propose

Hypothesize

That it was made for a reason?

Does its photosynthetic existence

Depend upon its consciousness

Of action or reaction?

Does the seed

Need

A pep talk

To break the shell?

Never having to contemplate

Inventory

Or rectify

Much less decide;

Only soak in the sun.

Yet, that verb can't quantify

The enormity represented

In those petals

Stems

And leaves.

What is perceived

As just "being"

Is provocatively,

Simply,

Supremely,

Complicated.

I suppose I will only feel

"Evolved"

When I can turn light

into food

Or thought

Into action.

That seems just as distant a reality.

2/15/15

Six string six shooter

I should have known so much sooner

I'd be falling.

It's loaded.

The hammer clicks.

And I'm praying it will slam into the primer

And chords

flinging themselves into me

Penetrating violently

Will rip thoroughly through

my resolve.

I always find ways to pull the trigger.