Monthly Archives: June 2014

Honey Upon My Tongue, a poem

illustration honey upon my tongue
Honey Upon My Tongue, a poem

Purple silk, soft against my skin, phone pressed to my ear like a shell,
I’m listening for the sounds of you, the sounds of the sea in your veins,
I want to hear your voice, sweet, low, soft as the silk against my skin.

I imagine you in your bed, stretched out, as comfortable against the mattress
as you would be against my body… you’re talking, and I’m listening like
it’s the first time… oh, but it is the first time. After you, nothing will be

the same, nothing will ever taste or smell or sound the way it used to.
There was the world before you, and now it feels flat and dead and dull,
as if I can hardly see how I moved through all the endless days, waiting…

waiting to hear this, your good voice, your sweet words, the sound of your
breath, the shape of your mouth… and your lips call to me like a wolf
howls at the moon, pulling my soul out of my body, stopping the clock,

making my whole self nothing but this overwhelming hunger. It is dark,
the middle of the night, the hour when the blackness turns to velvet,
when the stars shine like diamond chips in the dark blanket of the sky.

You are far away, but your voice is gentle in my bed with me. The image
of your body glows in my head, everything is in my head, everything is
possible, I may live forever. I want to please you. By pleasing you, I please

myself. Your joy is mine, I am greedy for it. And oh, the hunger. Inside me
is a magnet, collapsing the space between us. I am sucking you through wires…
and if I were there – do you wish I were there? I’d press my own shaking electric

fingers, my palms, upon your skin, first this place, then that place, searching,
reaching, touching each square inch of you, tracing your limbs with my
tongue’s thoughtless purpose; touching, rubbing, pushing, pulling, mouth open,

warm, mouth wet, soft, lips fiery, trembling, my head intoxicated with charting
and caressing the unknown territory of your sweet flesh. First, your wise,
funny mouth; your strong, stubborn teeth; your mischievous, wanton tongue.

I draw the good scent of your skin into my body for nourishment, breathing
you again and again, my chest rising, then falling, over and over, air drawn fast,
then faster; for you; because of you; simply to delight you. Then comes

the time of your neck, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers; my face an open
flower kissing you all over; my arms anchoring your warm, solid body;
my hair touching your chest, trailing slowly down your torso, your waist,

your hips, your loins, covering you like a loosely woven silk curtain.
For you; because of you; simply to delight you. All the while I caress you
with my lips, my tongue, my fingers, I tug your body closer to mine.

We feel each other’s weight, heat, firmness. As I move over you, your back
arches like a drawn bow; my lips are sweet arrows stinging; I caress your thighs,
your belly, your ass; I am greedy; I am hungry; I want this, simply to delight you.

I will say honey upon my tongue is like ashes after tasting you;
I will say I have lost myself and do not ever want to find my way home;
will say I have well-pleased the gods who created me, for this moment

and forever. I have a fire deep inside my body and will burn through
everything between us, mountains, walls, tables, chairs, clothes; just
to reach you; simply to delight you. Someday, I would like your bedroom

to be ringed with heaps of fragrant white flowers — frangipani, gardenia,
honeysuckle, hyacinth, jasmine, lily of the valley, magnolia, narcissus, rose.
The thick, sweet scent will make you relaxed, sleepy, and perhaps then

you will know how easy it is to surrender….

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Possessing My Daughter, section one of a short story

Possessing My Daughter, section one of a short story

illustration possessing my daughter section one

I think the human race somehow needs to evolve beyond children.  Beyond parenthood.  I certainly didn’t want to be a mama.  I resented it and I still do.  Even from the land of the dead, I still begrudge her all my time and effort.  She took so much, so much from me.  She was never grateful, never.  That’s why I’m making her write this now.

I almost had an abortion, but her father talked me out of it.  He could talk a dog off a meat wagon.  He carried me off across the desert to Las Vegas to get married.  My own father was so angry when he found out.  There I was, suddenly, on my own at 19, out of my father’s house.  My new husband and I took a small apartment in Venice Beach.

David had this asinine idea of being an artist.  He had this notion that my father should pay the bills indefinitely.  I had dropped out of college halfway through sophomore year.  I was seeing a psychiatrist.  It was 1959 – need I say more?  Freud was God.  My doctor said I hadn’t resolved my Electra complex.  That, he said, was what was making me so tired.  I slept more than 12 hours a day.  When I wasn’t sleeping, I shopped and went to parties.  The only bad part was knowing that eventually I’d have to make a decision and do something with the rest of my life.  It appeared that being deb of the year in my hometown wasn’t going to cut it much longer.

The first boy I loved broke my heart.  I vowed that it would never happen again.  So I did nothing to repair that broken heart.  I let it stay broken.  It was the only way I could think of to protect myself.  It’s been so long….

Since I’m already dead, I suppose you’re wondering what the point of all this is.  The point is this:  I don’t want anyone else to suffer what I suffered while I was alive, and especially  not what I’m suffering now that I’m dead.  Passing from life to death was supposed to bring me some sort of enlightenment, wasn’t that the fairytale?  I was supposed to experience an end to all my worldly cares – joy, peace, rest, or just plain oblivion.  Well, I didn’t get any of those things.  I’m not surprised:  why should my death be any different from my life?  I got the exact opposite of oblivion.  I got awareness and clarity of vision, a vision so merciless and sharp it would make my head hurt, if I still had a head.  Yes, I see everything  clearly, for the first time, and let me tell you, I’d settle for oblivion any day of the week.  All I want to do with my death is shake all of you by the scruff of the nectk until you get clarity of vision, too.  Then maybe, since you people are still lucky enough to be alive, you’ll do something with that vision while you still can.  Maybe you won’t end up like me.

My poor daughter, even after I died I wouldn’t let her alone.  I visited her over and over again in her dreams until she couldn’t stop thinking about me.  I took control of her heart and her mind – actually, now I see I did that the day she was born – and I never let go.  Now I can see how I really wanted her to tell my story all along – that’s why I raised her the way I did, to give her the necessary skills.  It was like heating iron in a forge and pounding it into a useful shape.  She’s writing it all down, every last bit.  I won’t let her stop until she’s done, and I’m satisfied.

Oh, she’s so much like her father.  What a mistake I made.  I’ve told so many lies since then that I’m not really sure what happened between us.  I think he could sniff out the complications I carried and wanted nothing to do with them.  He didn’t want to hear about how I’d suffered during my parents’ divorce and their custody battle over me.  He didn’t want to hear how I’d stopped eating after the judge sent me to  live with my father.  He didn’t want to hear how much I’d hated boarding school.  But I do remember wanting to have sex with him and him turning me down.  He was too fastidious to have sex with a girl he thought would make for a Problem Breakup.  That would only make the problems more problematic.  The excuse he used was that he still had a lot of schooling to get through – a year or two of college, then law school – and he couldn’t afford to get serious with anyone.  Not, he said, that I wasn’t beautiful and desirable.  The issue was I was too beautiful, too desirable, and getting serious with me was apt to derail his train, headed for success.  He’d lose sight of his goal, and so we had to stop seeing each other.


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A Collection of Matchbooks, a short story


A Collection of Matchbooks, a short story

1952, the Wayland Manor Hotel, Providence, Rhode Island.

The day is warm and humid, the yellow roses in the park across the street are in full bloom.  Eva tugs at the sleeves of her powder-blue silk suit.  She’s meeting Neal, the young lawyer she met at a Republican fundraiser last week.  Though Eva’s handsome, prep-schooled husband played tennis for Yale and still buys her wonderful presents, she’s lost her passion for him after five children.  Neal doesn’t have a dime, but he has smoldering dark eyes and soft, manicured hands.  He’s a good talker, very charming, the way he lights her cigarette seems so Continental.  Ever since the night Eva ran that girl over with her car after too many glasses of White Star, she’s been looking for a way out.  She knows her husband will never let her take the children, that’s what bothers her most.

1953, the Ambassador Hotel, Chicago.

Eva sits in the lobby waiting for Neal.  On the train back East from Los Angeles, Neal didn’t sleep more than two hours a night.  He’s frantic to make this business deal.  Eva’s money can only go so far, and though her mother contributes what she can, Neal’s ego is suffering.  Maybe if he didn’t spend so much time playing gin at the Club, he’d do better.  His wife really stung him in the divorce, he paid her a lump sum he could ill afford, but he felt so guilty.  He was only the second person in his family to divorce, the first was his older sister Nina.  She married the guy because her father told her to, so when he started getting weird in the head, she bolted.  Has her own dressmaking business back in Providence.  She dates the young boarder she took in.

1955, the Roosevelt Hotel, New Orleans.

Neal and Eva are stopping over for the night on their way to Savannah.  This trip was Eva’s idea, she wanted to revisit her childhood home, show him the house that survived the ’26 hurricane.  Her mother grew up there, raised by an aunt.  Eva remembers the switchings her nurse gave her for crossing the road by herself.  Lilly Mae had a gold tooth in front and wore the most outrageous wigs, red, blonde, honey chestnut.  Her bosom was soft, like feather pillows.  Eva is disappointed when the hotel can’t give them the Honeymoon Suite.  Neal shakes his head, smiles at Eva, pinches her fanny in the elevator on the way up to their room.

1956, annual convention of the California Polled Hereford Association, Berkeley, California.

Neal dances with his daughter, and Eva snipes at how clumsy the girl is.  Truth is, she’s gorgeous, and Eva’s feeling old.  They got both of Neal’s kids to live with them, Neal’s idea, Eva only wanted sweet little Patrick, not this sullen teenaged girl.  She misses her own children dreadfully.  Her ex-husband lets them visit in the summer.  Still, Eva manages to be kind to Neal’s daughter, she pays for Liza’s boarding school, the very best in the state.  Neal had this idea to raise prize Herefords, Eva’s mother thought it was a great idea, so they bought the ranch in Ojai.  The cattle women all look the same — brown cheeks, pale orange lipstick.  Eva doesn’t fit in, but she doesn’t care.  She orders another chilled vodka, downs it in three swallows.  Her throat burns, it feels cleansed.

1956, Diamond Jim Moran’s, New Orleans.

Liza’s in the ladies’ room, helping Eva to vomit.  Liza wipes Eva’s forehead with a damp towel.  The attendant turns away, afraid she’ll start laughing.  Eva’s hair flops over her forehead and Liza takes the comb and smoothes it back into her thick French twist.  Eva and Neal are on their way home after taking Liza and Patrick to visit their mother in Jacksonville.  It was the least Neal could do, considering his ex-wife’s frame of mind.  When the children left her, she lost 40 pounds in a month.  Liza misses her mother, but doesn’t want to move home.  Next summer, she’ll be a debutante.

1959, the Palace Hotel, San Francisco.

Liza’s on break from Mills College, meeting a boy, Ted, for drinks in the lobby.  She wanted to go to UCLA, but her father wanted her at a girls’ school.  It won’t help.  She’ll be pregnant within the year.  Ted, the baby’s father, fancies himself a Beatnik.  He grew a tiny goatee, sparse but bright red.  Liza is getting tired of the same old thing.  She sees a woman without legs being pushed in a wheelchair across the lobby.  Ted’s right behind, and Liza knows they’ll have sex in the car later.  She wonders what it would be like to have no legs to get in the way.

1959, the Luau, Beverly Hills.

Neal’s throwing a reception for Liza after she eloped to Las Vegas.  He put a good face on it, announced the wedding in the local paper, but he tried to talk her into an abortion.  Liza refused, and Neal thought about having her committed, but Ted talked him out of it.  Ted swears he’ll do the right thing, but Neal has a sick feeling.  The kid has dollar signs in his eyes, just like Neal at that age.  Neal should have listened to his heart, not Ted.  He envisions his daughter in a roach-infested apartment on Venice Beach, wearing nothing but black leotards, her enormous belly heaving as she dances to jazz records.  He wants to kill someone.

1960, Arnaud’s Restaurant, New Orleans.

Eva and her mother are on their way back out West after a shopping trip to New York.  Her mother bought a hat covered with white peacock feathers, and Eva hates it.  She wants to strangle her mother, wants her to hurry up and die so Eva can inherit the family money.  Eva’s ancestors made their money in shipping, sailing goods up and down the Eastern seaboard, and she is absolutely certain none of them owned slaves.  Eva’s mother is a spiritual nut, always falling for some Asian philosophy or another.  Next, she’ll run off with the little Mexican gardener, and Eva will have to concoct a suitable cover story.  They’ve never been close, not since her mother left for Mexico when Eva was two.

1961, the Redwood Room, Clift Hotel, San Francisco.

Ted and Liza are filing for divorce.  Neal is listening to his daughter sob.  She thinks Ted needs her, but Neal knows there’s nothing wrong with the kid that a good bank account won’t cure.  He had that illness himself.  Ted’s refused to work, has taken only art classes instead of working for his MBA like Neal wanted.  The baby lives on fried chicken and Pepsi.  Still, the little thing is cute — ten months and she walks, no, runs, already.  She’s got more of Neal in her than anyone else.  Ted’s parents pleaded with Neal not to interfere, but he can’t stand by and watch his daughter worry where her next meal is coming from.

1963, the Seven Seas Restaurant, Miami.

Neal sent the baby to live with his ex-wife, and sent Liza back to school.  Liza chose secretarial training, and works in a bank by day, looks for men at night.  Liza gets jealous sometimes at how happy her mother is with the baby, but Liza’s not very maternal to begin with.  This man she’s involved with is a sailor.  She’s never dated someone who didn’t go to college.  Even his hands are different.

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