It’s not blood she’s looking for. It’s the sweet smell of fear. She knows what it looks like on the man. She’s tasted it from other people, but she knows what it looks like.

The bar is full. She sits at the corner and looks down it, waiting for the man, for his pressed collar shirt and handsome stubble that she knows the feel of. There have been too many who looked like him walking into the bar, laughing with their friends, flirting with a woman who is far out of their league, if not for looks, then for attitude. She sips a martini, her nails curling around the stem of the glass, eyes darting from this man to that.

She doesn’t see when he walks in, only when he leans against the bar, pushing between two other men. He’s already drunk, she knows by the wrinkle on his shirt sleeve and the nearly imperceptible lack of focus. She can smell it, too, bile and sweat, all the things to come when he’s too deep in. She leaves her unfinished martini on the stained counter, and follows behind him, watching his shirt tail shift with every clumsy step.

When he sits down with a woman young enough to be his daughter, she holds back, stopping next to a table and waiting, her hand on the top, nails tapping. The sounds of the bar float away. His mouth is moving but she hears nothing. She wants him to see her, to see her blood red nails, her mad eyes, her hair that falls just below the shoulder and caresses the nape of her neck. He needs to see her before she does anything.

His eyes run over her once, then flick back, stopping, widening. It takes him a moment longer than usual to relax, to pretend nothing is strange. The woman with him doesn’t notice, clutches his bicep playfully. He gets up, swats her away, and makes a break for the bathroom.

She smells it now. Thick. Sea-water, moldy thickness. Her perfume stuck to his neck. She smells it all. She follows him down the dimly-lit corridor to the men’s bathroom. He’s standing over the sink, clutching it knuckle-white. His fear smells like propane and rust. Or maybe that’s her fear. Whatever. She pretends it’s his.

He says something to her that she doesn’t hear. She stands in the doorway. He squares his shoulders and walks towards her. She pretends to grab for something in her pocket. He flinches backward, back, back to the sinks, where he’s stopped, but leans away, until he’s practically on top of them.

His fear smells like her blood on his hands. Deeply she breathes. And Feasts.

Over the wicked winter,

Young John lived in his cousin’s half insulated barn

Every night he’d turn on the space heater--

a dinky excuse of comfort--

crawl under a pile of blankets atop a straw mattress.

Orion’s Belt crawling over the sky,

he would wake up in shivers

teeth chattering through dry breath;

it would be a matter of turning the heater back on

curling deeper under his wool blankets,

until the scratch lulled him back to sleep.

On a frigid mid-February night,

The heater tipped over,

and as an old barn is wont to do in the dry of winter,

it burned, burned

before Young John’s cousin could awake

to the acrid smell of smoke.

The funeral they held for Young John was finished with an empty casket put into the town’s crypt.

In those few moments before he burned,

Young John remembered being warm.

[#poetry #country #narrativepoetry #farms]

"Hello, this is...um...Joe of Joe's Refrigerators and Grills."

"Who?"

"Yes, exactly, I have on record that you purchased a fridge from us--shut up, Kyle--just a month ago, and I've noticed some strange activity on it."

"I'm sorry, you track fridge activity?"

"Yes, well you see, that's one of our company's policies."

"You know that's a huge violation of privacy, right?"

"Well, company policy ma'am, there's nothing I can do about it."

"First of all, I'm not a ma'am, and second of all, didn't you say you were 'Joe of Joe's Refrigerators and Grills'?"

"Unfortunate coincidence. I'm Joe Jackson Jr., my father Joe Jackson Sr., runs the company, and you know how parents are, real...uh--what Kyle? What the fuck does that mean--cucks these days. Especially when they get older."

"I'm sorry?"

"Company policy is all."

"Uh. Okay. Um, what about my fridge activity Joe Jackson Jr.?"

"Well, it seems a little strange. It's going very quickly, and we're just worried here at--what did I call it?--Joe's Refrigerators and Grills that you may have been hacked."

"I'm sorry, my fridge is hacked?"

"Possibly ma'--shit no--sir."

"That's a load of bull--"

From an entirely different voice, suddenly boyish and ridiculously giggly, "Is your refrigerator running!?"

"Wha--"

"You better go catch it."

Click.

From the other side of the house, a heavy sound, like a thud of a large, heavy box falling. Then, appearing from the kitchen of the man's house, a tall, white, boxy figure with two morbidly human legs. The man drops his phone so it hangs uselessly from the wall. The figure approaches him, gaining speed with every step. Then, in a deep baritone, akin to the howling depths of hell,

"Catch me if you can. Bitch."

Her lips were so soft. And it was embarassing. At first, strange. Like when you try something boiled for the first time, and it takes you a few tries to actually like it. Worldly different than my "first kiss" in seventh grade with a girl I didn't really like--but she was the only other bi curious one, so obviously we had to kiss. This was charged with more tension, and I was expecting something that I knew wouldn't come.

On my twin mattress, desparately trying to ignore the fact that my parents were downstairs. We laughed into each other, pulling back to hide our faces--especially our lips where we had kissed. She was just as shy as I was, even though she started it (just like childhood--well, she started it--but now it was reverance more than accusation), but we grew comfortable.

These were the moments I looked forward to, but without a license and stuck at the mercy of my parents willingness to drive half-an-hour to pick her up, they came only one or two more times before we broke up. Again.

Ah, young love.

The next person I'm with will be a new first kiss, and I'll think, "Well, she wasn't my real first kiss." Because this new one will mean something different, something more charged with understanding. Just like seventh grade to tenth grade.

In the nighted woods

By the light of a full moon

The beast runs freely.

She is made of blood

the flesh of those before her

the moon,

high, full,

weeping from the envied sun.

She has eaten hearts.

Sustenance matched only by

minds of sinners,

because she was once.

A sinner.

A sinner in her life

A god by death,

because now they fear.

They have never feared her

more than this night.

Gods are made of fear.

The ground supplicates beneath her

claws against the doors

that denied her;

they didn’t fear her before

she was this.

She feasts off their fear,

now eating their eyes

with her bestial insanity.

Well shit. Not the first time this has happened. Not this specifically, but it has happened. My head usually don’t hurt like a fucker, but that could mean anything.

I get up, stretching my sore muscles. There’s a small dresser in the corner, haphazardly stuffed with clothes, and the bed I’m lyin’ on is small, lumpy, and covered with a knit blanket. It’s musty, and there might be mold growin’ in one of the ceiling’s corners, but the thing that really gets to me is that the door isn’t a door at all, and light is comin’ in through the edges, and goddamn if it isn’t the brightest shit mother Earth could think to make on a guy who can barely walk ‘cause his head is hurtin’ like a sinner.

Besides all that, it’s hot as Hell. If I had a shirt on (and I don’t, and that’s damn concerning, ’cause I always have one), I’d have sweat straight through it last night. That tells me enough that I’m not in Canada or Russia, or any place like that--now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but it’s not so bad as people say, especially if you like the cold better than this godforsaken heat--and ’spose that narrows it down.

I take a few more moments to myself, riflin’ through the dresser to find a shirt that’ll look halfway decent on me, ’cause Pa used to tell me, “if you can’t find anything else nice to wear, at least wear a nice shirt.” I do have a jacket, but that’s not enough. These clothes are very clearly not mine, but they fit well enough, even if they are, I ’spose, ‘women’s clothes.’ My pants are just fine, if a little strange for a place like this, wherever “this” is. I search and search for sunglasses, but the closest I get is a baseball cap with “Toros de Tijuana” written across the top--so, Mexico or someplace close by to that then.

Finally, I get the balls to go outside, bracin’ myself against the sunlight that penetrates just about everything about. ‘Least out here there’s some fresh air, not the dominatin’ smell of...old stuff. It seems I’ve found myself in a little collection of run-down, but friendly enough lookin’ houses: There’s a few folks putterin’ around, tendin’ to their gardens or just sweatin’ in the sun. It’s dusty in the way that it is ‘round places like this. One of the folks, a woman I think, gives me the hairy eyeball when she spots me, and turns to say somethin’ to her friend. I wave to be affable, but they just turn about and ignore me. At this point, I’m startin’ to wonder if this headache ain’t just any headache, and how much I drank last night. Generally, I try to avoid that stuff, but a guys gotta indulge every once in a while, right?

There’s a woman sitting on a rocking chair, just lookin’ at me, not glarin’ or silently cursin’ or anything, so I wander over to her, tryin’ to look as non-threatening as a six-foot guy can. Nice smile, meek posture, all that stuff. She’s workin’ on a fine piece of cloth, hand-sewing something.

“’scuse me, ma’am,” I say, polite as the day, “could you tell me what town this is?”

Her hands still from their work, and she looks at me like I’m an idiot. In a way that tells me I’m being mocked, she says, “Que?”

To be honest, I don’t feel like an idiot often, but you’d think from my Mexican baseball cap and the obvious summer heat, I’d know what the hell language to speak. “Uh...sorry? Lo siento?” I try. I picked up a few phrases from a few languages here and there, but I’d never acquainted myself very well with Spanish. I clear my throat and try again. “Hola. Que...pueblo?” I gesture uselessly to the air around me, tryin’ to clear up exactly what I’m sayin’.

She stares at me for a few seconds, unblinkin’, before she breaks into laughter. I would be offended if I didn’t agree that this situation was so damn ridiculous, and I start laughin’, too, though it don’t feel too good. She calls over a guy workin’ on a house and says somethin’ I can’t quite pick out. A tall man with darker skin comes over, his hair pulled back. He asks something that seems like, “What’s going on?” but I can’t quite tell.

The woman stabs her needle into a pincushion and gestures to me, sayin’ something else, and both of them laugh. Then the man turns to me and says, “Do you know how you got here?” His English is just fine.

“You speak English?” I ask because that’s all I can think of. My head just keeps on hurtin’.

“I’m from Chicago. We talked last night, man,” he says. “Water?”

My mouth is pretty dry. “That would be nice.” He leads me into the woman’s house, which is nicer than the one I woke up in. There’s a little kitchen with an old, gas stove and some cupboards; a dining room with a nice table surrounded by four chairs; a box TV on the far wall. He hands me a glass of lukewarm water, which I gladly glug down. After drinkin’ most of it, I feel the need to apologize. “Now, I know you said we talked last night, but I don’t remember a damn thing.”

“Not surprising. You could’ve drunk a horse under the table.” The guy grabs a glass for himself. “I’m Antonio. My abuelita is the one who was making fun of you. You met her last night, too.”

Shit. Not something I try to make a habit of. “Did I happen to say where I came from? Or where I was going?”

“No, but you did come in a beat-up Ford, down at the pub. You talked to me and Abuelita for a while before a guy came over and asked if you wanted to join their poker game.” Antonio got water for himself. “You played for a while, won a lot, and got pretty drunk.”

I set down my glass. “Shit. Did I do anything stupid?”

Antonio shrugs. “Me and abuelita left at nine. I guess something happened because you showed up at her house with a black eye.”

Black eye? I touch my face, only now noticing a slight throbbing--headache must’ve canceled it out. “Huh.”

“Considering how well you were doing, I’d assume those guys thought you were cheating. I’m gonna be honest, I wouldn’t blame them for doing,” he gestures at my eye, “that. You were playing really well.”

“I’d blame ‘em.” I fill my glass again and sip slower this time. “Did I ever pay you for lettin’ me stay?” I reach into my pocket, pulling out a hundred dollar bill. It’s a little crumpled, and I don’t remember having it before, but it’s money.

Antonio shoos it away. “Don’t worry about it. Nobody lives in that little shack, anyways. You’re a nice enough guy, and you didn’t cause us any trouble. Besides, that wouldn’t be very helpful down here.”

“S’pose not.” I stuff the bill back into my pocket. I look outside the little window above the sink--heats literally pourin’ off the ground. The water’s helping my headache, but all that sunshine’s a real bitch. “How far’s the pub from here?”

“Not too far. I can give you a lift if you need.”

“Don’t worry about it, Antonio. You’ve done enough for an old, stupid fool,” I say. We walk back out of the house, and it’s still a radiator, but the water took the edge off.

“Which way to the pub?”

“Just West. It’s about a ten-minute walk.” He pulls out a slip of paper from his pocket and jots down a number. “Just in case your truck doesn’t start or something. There’s a landline there. Don’t be afraid to call--not like I’m doing much anyway.”

I stuff it into my dungarees next to the money. “It was nice meetin’ you Antonio. Sorry, I don’t remember nothin’ from last night, but you’ve been more than accomodatin’. And uh…” I turn to his abuelita, who’s gone back to sewing, “ma’am...gracias and mucho gusto.” I figure it’s better to try than leave without sayin’ a word.

She snickers at me, but says, “Mucho gusto, mi amigo. Adios.” And I understand that much.

The pub is like any small-town pub, with the regulars mullin’ about during the middle of the day. When I walk in, the only acknowledgment I get is a nod from the bartender. I set my coat down on the table in front of me and wait until the man has a second.

He smiles affably enough, then says something in Spanish.

“Oh, uh...no hablo espanol?” I try. “Lo siento.”

“No problemo. Hablo Ingles. What do you need?”

“I was in here last night, just drove into town. I was wonderin’ if I left anythin’ here?”

What I’m hopin’ to find are my car keys. I could start the old Ford without ’em, but it’s safer with. “Like keys?”

“Hm, un momento.” He goes to one section of the bar and sorts through a little container.

“What type?”

“Ford.”

“Ah! Aqui. A note, too.”

And lo-’n’-behold, a little paper is attached to it. I take ’em back. “Gracias, sir.”

“Of course.”

“Adios,” I say as I walk out, sure that I sound dumb, but I’d rather be polite at my own expense.

When I’m in the truck, I examine the note. It’s scrawled fairly drunkenly, but legible--probably four shots in rather than seven. I make it out to read:

Turn back. No treasure here. Too bad, partner.

What in the hell--who the hell had me fooled? I turn it over a few times, but nothin’ new reveals itself. As I’m puzzlin’ over my own thoughts, there’s a tap on my window. A young woman is starin’ in at me. I roll down my window. “Howdy.”

“Hola,” she says.

“Hola,” I say.

She holds up another note. “Aqui.”

I get her meanin’ and grab it. “Gracias.” The note says:

Ignore last note. Lost passport. Call Gil.

Then scrawled at the bottom:

PS. pay the nice woman who promised to give note

I look back out and the woman’s still standin’ there, expectantly. “Ah, shit,” I mutter. “Alright, one second--uno momento.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the hundred bucks. “Here you go.” She smiles and takes it. I’m not sure how currency exchange works, but I’m sure it’s not that difficult.

Call Gil. That dumbass--s’pose it takes one to know one, but that gives me even more liberty to call him that. You gotta understand, Gil is not the type of guy you bet with unless you know him real well, and that’s comin’ from a guy who well bet just about anybody, anything. I have a cardinal rule when it comes to that friend--don’t gamble with him. Pretty self-explanatory.

I get out of my truck and go into the bar once again.

“Sorry to bother, sir, but do you have a landline I could borrow?” I ask the bartender.

“Sorry, my friend. For paying customers only.” And he does look sorry.

Shit. “I was a payin’ customer last night,” I try.

He shakes his head.

“One sec,” I say and go back out to my truck. Usually, I’ll have a handful of change between the seats or in the glove compartment. I find an old pack of cigarettes, two lighters, an empty chip bag, dirt, a hammer and some nails, and more dirt. “Oh, come on,” I mutter. In a last ditch effort, I pull out the little container below the passenger’s seat--and there it is, a dollar in change. That’s gotta buy me somethin’.

Once again, I go back to the bar. I put the quarters down on the table. “Got anything for a dollar?”

“No pesos?” the bartender asks, but I can tell he’s teasin’ a little.

“No pesos, sorry.”

This strange exchange has piqued the interest of a few of the regulars. One man in a Pearl Jam t-shirt sittin’ close by leans in a bit.

“Hmph,” the bartender says. “Well...okay.” From the top shelf, he pulls down this liqueur, completely unnaturally colored--a sort of vibrant blue that should only exist in science fiction--and pours out a bit in a shot glass. “It has been on that shelf for...five years? Cinco años?” he asks the crowd. The few that have come over nod.

So. This is a show now. I gulp. “Wonderful.”

“Drink it and you can use the phone.” He certainly seems to be enjoyin’ himself.

“That’s fair,” I say, because what else is a man to do in this situation? I ponder whether or not to take a whiff of the stuff for a moment--to know your poison or not. That is the question. Lookin’ down into the blue abyss, I realize I could’ve just driven to Antonio’s abuelita’s house and used her landline...but now, this is a question of honor. If I don’t drink, I’m a weak American and I’ve lost all their respect. If I do, then they’ll remember me as “that gringo who drank that drink one time.” And that’s more than I could ask for. “Alright.” I take the glass in one fell swoop and swallow it all at once. I barely taste it until it hits the back of my throat, and that’s not so much a taste so much as a feelin’: What I’d imagine absolute revulsion to be.

I cough, once. Twice. But I hold in my liqueur.

There’s a quick round of applause. The bartender pats me on the shoulder, then puts the phone on the bar. “Good work.”

I start to dial Gil’s number before I realize it’s probably international unless he’s got a little abode in Mexico somewhere, which wouldn’t surprise me one bit. He’s a weird guy. I only think briefly about not callin’, but as much as I’ve been tryin’ to take it all in stride, I’m startin’ to get a little antsy. There’s no doubt in my mind that if this were all Gil’s plan I will be royally upset. And I don’t upset easy.

I finish dialin’ and it rings for a while. And a little bit more.

Then a click and, “Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Earl.”

“Oh, hey Earl.” It’s not Gil. It’s his wife, Flavia. She’s a nice woman, and I love to talk with her, but I don’t want to charge the bar very much for an international call.

“Hey, Flavia, I need to talk to Gil. It’s sort of an emergency.”

“Oh, Gil’s not here.”

“He’s not there?”

“No. Why would he be? You and him went to Mexico.”

“Oh.” Right. Right we got a motel room in a town a little bigger than this not too far from here. We were gonna...I don’t remember. “Did he bring his phone?”

“Why are you asking me? Isn’t he with you?” She sounds confused and on the verge of starting to get worried.

“Oh, yeah. We just got separated last night, that’s all. Might have drunken a few too many.”

She sighs. I can see her shaking her head. “Well, give a call to his phone. And don’t do anything stupid.”

“Yes, mother,” I say.

“See you when you get back,” she says and hangs up.

I shake my head as I put the phone back on the receiver. “Shit.” Rubbing my face, I try to remember what me and Gil are doin’ in Mexico. The motel is in a little town, that much I remember. One story, an off-tan color, and sorta rundown. The room was nice enough, I think. We must’ve been drinkin’ all the way to Mexico if I can’t remember more than that.

I pick up the phone again, which earns me a look from the bartender. “C’mon, man,” I say, desperate.

He sighs, pushes another bright blue shot my way. “Alright.”

I take it quick--it’s not so bad this time--and dial Gil’s number. It rings a good five times before he picks up.

“Heya.” His very voice makes me want to puke.

“Heya, to you, asshole.” The anger in my tone surprises even me.

“Earl!” He’s drunker than a goddamn skunk, I can hear that much.

“Where the hell are ya?”

“At the motel. Where the hell are you?” He giggles.

“At a bar in some town.”

“Whaaat? Whyyy?”

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to figure out!” I yell.

He gets real quiet for a while. Almost seems like he’s off the line, before he says, “Oh! Ha!”

“What!?” A few of the patrons throw me dirty looks, but I don’t even care anymore. “What’s so fricken’ funny, Gil?”

As if his drunk speech wasn’t enough, he’s laughin’ so hard he can barely talk. “I told you--I bet you--treasure! In--in that little town!” He’s cryin’, I can hear it.

“Just talk to me, man!” I’m hollerin’ for real now, ’cause I know what he’s gonna say, and I don’t want to hear a word of it.

“You said--you said you could find treasure, ’cause of the map your daddy gave you--you were so drunk.” He breaks out into peals of laughter.

“You’re so drunk,” I snap.

“It’s not even--it’s not even of Mexico.” He’s laughin’ and laughin’.

“Oh fuck right off!”

“You owe me your truck!” He’s hollerin’ laughin’.

“The fuck I do!” I just start yellin’ again, things that I shouldn’t be yellin’ in any public facility.

I don’t notice the lines cut out until I stop to take a breath and there aren’t any obnoxious laughs left. I put the phone down slowly, just breathin’. Then I look up, ashamed, at the bartender. He just pats my shoulder again and sets down a glass of bright blue liqueur.

“On the house,” he says.

I sip it. I think it’s really startin’ to grow on me. “You don’t happen to have any treasure here, do you?”

“From what I heard, you almost had it last night,” the bartender says.

I set down the glass, real slow. “What?”

“The guys were telling me you beat a group of men at poker last night. They gave you a shit ton of money.” He’s not lookin’ at me, just polishin’ some glasses.

“No. No that’s not the way I heard it.”

“They don’t lie.”

“Antonio said--”

“Antonio?” the man a few stools away from me says. He says somethin’ in Spanish that I

can’t make out.

“What did he say?” I ask the bartender.

“Antonio played a hand with you, all or nothing. He won.”

“Antonio?” I ask again because I can’t wrap my head around it. “But he was such a nice young man.”

“Sure. A good gambler, too.”

“Then how the hell I’d get this, then.” I point to my eye.

The man at the bar says somethin’ else in Spanish. The bartender translates, “You got upset with him, so you tried to fight for it, but you were drunk. He punched you so you wouldn’t punch him.”

“And the money?”

He stops then and looks at me real suspicious now. “You’re broke.”

“I had a hundred.”

“Had?”

“Gave it to a young lady,” I say.

The man at the bar says somethin’ else.

“He says that was Antonio’s little sister.”

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me!” The bartender pours me another glass. I take a sip. “I cannot believe this.”

The man says another thing.

“He says it was money Antonio gave you so you could find a safe ride home. It was the only American money in the pot.”

“Alright, alright! I get it! I was swindled for all I’m worth.” I down the rest of the liqueur, rub my face, and grab my keys. “Well, gentleman, I thank you for the information.”

“Safe driving,” the bartender says.

I wave back half-heartedly. My heads hung all the way to my truck. When I look up, expectin’ to see the partly-rusted green of my Ford; instead, I see nothin’ but barren rocks and a few shrubs. My truck is gone.

“Everlovin’godmotherfuckin’dammit!”

You want me to write about war. But I can't. I don't know what war is. The word is foreign in my mouth. Here's what I can tell you.

On July 24 my brother went to a meeting with a worker's coalition. He didn't come back. Instead he was found dead in a ditch next to Route 78, laceration along his ribs, a bloodied face, and his class ring missing. There was an unmarked car outside our house for months. Mom was devastated, but you couldn't tell. Dad just kept going to work. There wasn’t a funeral. That just happened to people like my brother.

I wondered. All younger siblings do when their brother is mysteriously killed. I went to the Coalition Meeting House, but it was gone--or at least not where I was sure I would find it. There was a homeless man sitting against a building across the street. He was watching me. I asked him, “Where did the building go?”

He said, “They took it.”

I gave him the twenty bucks in my wallet.

I don’t know who they are so don’t ask. Nobody knows who they are. So I went home.

There was no obituary for him.

Herman Gates, my brother’s boss, spoke about the loss of workers on the News Hour, but not my brother. Just costs. How much it was all worth. How much my brother’s work was worth. How much my brother was worth.

I went back to work, too.

There is no war here. There are no...you called them soldiers. We work. Life goes on.

See, that’s the problem.

When you die, you don’t realize it.

A man or woman or person comes up to you,

and they sit beside you.

They don’t say much and you wonder

Who is this?

You’re uncomfortable

(but not because it’s Death).

You don’t talk.

And then you get up and walk away,

but the world is different

(leafless trees, empty houses)

and Death is always in your line-of-sight.

See that’s the problem,

you don’t know when you die.

death is coming closer;

a constant march.

LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT

My cousins are soldiers, or commanders or lieutenants.

It won’t matter when they’re in Korea or Russia or Syria.

It won’t matter when there are bullets and grenades and landmines.

It won’t matter when they’re the only women in the platoon.

It won’t matter when they come back wounded

or….

I don’t know war,

So who I am to say?

Vietnam, Korea, World War II--

studying isn’t synonymous with knowing.

Vietnam was a result of Containment,

But PTSD is a result of bad policy.

Korea was a result of rising tensions after WWII

But a lost limb is a result of a roadside bomb.

World War II was a result of an ambush

So is a dead friend.

Unscarred countrysides,

scarred countrymen,

fighting for America without America.

But who am I to say?

I don’t know war.