Knelt in front of me, laid his head
in my lap, wrapped his arms
around my hips. I stroked his hair
and at practically the exact same
instant, we both said, “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry.
He looked up at me, and there
was nothing in his topaz eyes
but apology, and a question.
My favorite question. I didn’t
have to speak my answer.
He stood, pulled me to my feet,
led me to his bed. Wait. Let me
lock the door. They’ll be home
soon. When he turned back to
me, I had taken off my sweater,
thrown it to the rocking chair. He
whistled. Jesus. What did I do?
He traced the bruises, patterned
exactly in the shape of his fingers,
and turning the gunmetal gray
of night, lifting over the ocean.
“It’s okay,” I promised. And only
a tiny disbelieving sliver of me
kept whispering that it wasn’t.
THERE WAS SOMETHING FRANTIC
About the way he made love
to me then. It had nothing to do
with hurrying to finish before
his mom got home. It was more
like he thought I might change
my mind midstroke, decide to leave
forever. He pinned my wrists over
my head. His mouth roamed my body
freely, and every time his tongue
made me squirm, he gripped harder.
His kisses were laced with lust. Only
later did I question the stimulus of
his passion. I don’t know if I’ll ever
trust him completely, but I did in that
moment. I had to. He was taking me
places I’d rarely been before, even
with him. He plunged his face between
my legs, driving into me with tongue
and teeth and fingers until I begged
him to stop. No. It was a growl.
Give me your cream. I had no choice,
he made me come, but then I pleaded
for, “More. Fuck me.” I’d never said
those words before. Not to Cole.
Not to anyone. He hesitated, and I
worried I’d made him angry or turned
him off. Not even close. He smiled.
Say it again. Louder. I did, and when
I did, in a single strong move, he slid
one arm under me, flipped me over
onto my stomach, tugged me to
the foot of the bed. He stood there,
just looking at me, for what seemed
like a very long time. Suddenly,
he was inside of me, driving into me
with animal ferocity. Wilderness,
personified. There was lust there,
yes. And more—the fear of a soldier,
flushing an enemy he cannot see.
The anger of a man who has watched
his buddy blown to bits. The tension
of a sniper, waiting endlessly for
an uncertain outcome. The brittleness
of a boy, trapped in a man’s uniform.
In one gigantic shudder, it was all
released, right there in me. We crept
up onto the pillows, covered our nakedness
with quilts. And, snug in each other,
we escaped into the haven of dreams.
HAVEN
So much I want to say,
wish I could confess,
but silence swells,
black
as midsummer
clouds, stacked upon hills
between us. Black as the
demons
shrieking inside my head.
My heart rumbles, heavy
with snippets of memory
that must not be
conjured.
Alone in this untamed
empty place, I free
a relentless volley
of words. They
rage
against the pages, a torrent
of what was, what is,
what yet may come.
And when at last the spirits
recede,
I find echoed
in their retreat, stories
I dare not give voice to—
nightmares set adrift
in my paper harbor.
Cole Gleason
Present
SOME THINGS YOU DO
Whether or not you want to. Especially
when a friend is involved. Case in point.
Darian promised to go to Lodi with me
over the holiday break. We’re supposed
to check out wineries, even though she still
insists I’m crazy to even consider getting
married to Cole. Not only that, but she
agreed to be my matron of honor, even
though she said the word “matron”
makes her sound like a prison warden.
We discussed colors. I was thinking
sort of pale green, maybe with lavender
accents. Oh, no. Check out the purple
dresses on this website. Dark is in
this year. And purple is memorable.
I have to admit, she was right. So, I’m
thinking purple, with turquoise accents,
to go with Cole’s dress blues. We’ve still
got time to decide, though. Darian’s got
lots of great ideas. I told her she should
consider becoming a wedding planner.
I’m definitely better at making plans
for other people, she said. Every time
I try to plan for myself, something
always fucks up forward motion.
SEEMS TO BE THE CASE
For my forever friend. That makes
me sad. Sometimes it’s all her doing.
Sometimes it’s just the fickleness
of the gods or whatever. And I suppose
at times everyone feels the same way.
But without a friend to prop you up,
see you through the tough periods,
it could start to feel overwhelming.
So, because we’re best friends, and
since turnabout is fair play, I’ll support
Dar’s decision to stay with Spencer,
at least until he’s able to care for himself,
or agrees to move home. When his mom
brought it up, he was as resistant as Darian
to the idea. Oh, hell, no. Go back home
so Mommy can feed me and change
my diapers? Not on a dead damn bet.
I’ll do this all on my own if I have to.
It was about then we all figured Spence
will recover. It’s been a slow, painful process.
But he is progressing. He’s scheduled
for an artificial skin graft right after
the first of the year. Artificial, because
he doesn’t have enough undamaged
skin to serve as his own donor. And as
organs go, I’ve learned, skin is among
the pickiest, almost always rejecting
donations from other people or animals.
Spence’s face, neck, shoulders, and arms
were burned the worst. Somehow,
his hands mostly escaped. The doctors
believe he tucked them under himself,
protecting them instinctively. Beyond
the burns, there is some impact nerve
damage to his spine. They’re not sure if
he’ll walk again. But, supine or straight
up and down, the part of Spencer that
makes him uniquely Spence is alive
and kicking inside him. That gives
everyone h
ope that he’ll find his way
back onto his feet. Yes, no, or maybe,
he’s going to need all the help he can
get, both medically and emotionally.
I really hope Darian is up to the task.
EITHER WAY
She and I are going out tonight
for a belated birthday celebration.
I’m officially twenty-five. (Is that all?)
Dinner. Drinks. And slam poetry.
She was a little resistant to the last,
but hey, it’s my party and I’ll do what
I want to. Argh! More sixties-era
lyrics. I pull into Dar’s driveway
a little before six. When I ring the bell,
she yells for me to come inside, make
myself at home while she finishes
her makeup. The TV is on, so I sit
and wait for a commercial to finish
and the local news to fire up,
They flash a picture for the lead story,
and my stomach drops. I know this
woman. I haven’t seen her in well
over a year. She’s thinner. Rougher
around the edges. But it’s definitely
Soleil’s mother. New developments
in the drive-by shooting that claimed
two victims in Santee on Tuesday,
says the announcer. 10News has learned
that twenty-two-year-old Chandra Baird,
who resides in the bullet-strafed house,
allegedly has ties to a Mexican drug cartel.
A large quantity of methamphetamine
was recovered. Baird’s boyfriend, Max Lemoore,
was killed in the incident. Her four-year-old
daughter remains in guarded condition . . . .
NO!
The blood drains from my face. I feel it
turn white and cold. “No-o-o-o.” It escapes
my mouth in a single protracted whimper.
The next is a shout. “Why, goddamn it?
How could they let her go back?” Didn’t
anyone notice? Did they even bother
to look? Isn’t that what Child Protective
Services is supposed to do? What the hell?
Darian materializes suddenly. Ash?
What’s wrong? Hey, are you all right?
You look like you just saw a spook.
“Can I have a drink?” I don’t wait
for an answer. Tequila. And a lot of it.
I pour a fat glass for me. “Want one?’
Not until you tell me what in God’s
name the matter is. She watches
me down a long, slow swallow.
“Did you hear about a drive-by in
Santee? The little girl who was shot
went to the preschool for a while. I
noticed some problems and called CPS.
What good did it do, Dar? What good
did I do? What’s the point of a so-called
safety net if it can’t catch kids who are
are obviously falling?” I think about
how long it took to convince Soleil
to let me push her on the swings.
The trust she finally gifted me with.
The trust her own mother shattered.
“I knew, goddamn it. I knew she was using.
Now they’re saying it was drug related.”
Darian puts her hand on my arm,
which is shaking enough to make
the drink look dangerous. It’s not
your fault. You did all you could.
I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. So much
of the system is broken. They want
to keep families together. Sometimes
it works. But when it doesn’t, you can’t
always fix the outcome. It sucks,
but you’d better get used to it. You’re
going to see it a lot as a social worker.
I set my drink on the counter.
“Maybe, maybe not. I’m not sure
I could handle stuff like this all the time.”
So, do something else. It’s not too
late to change your mind. Look.
I’m going to finish getting ready.
Then we’re having some fun, okay?
Don’t forget you’re driving, though.
She eyes my drink and goes to put on
her shoes. I reach for something
close to belief, toss a prayer toward
heaven. I couldn’t save her. Will He?
I TRY TO PUT AWAY
All thoughts of Soleil,
but I keep picturing
her spindly legs
pumping air beneath
the swing. Kicking.
I sip my tequila, relish
the slow warm trickle
down my throat. See
her thin lips, coaxed
into a small gap-toothed
smile. Fleeting.
One more small taste,
wishing the slender
buzz could make me
forget about
her purpling back,
the way she reached
deep for courage, showed
me the corded welts. Lifting.
I close my eyes, but
the darkness behind
the lids can’t obscure
the nightmarish pictures
forming in my mind of
her, beaten, bruised,
and crying out for help
she could never find.
Of her, lying still and
quiet in a rivulet of blood.
THE DISEMBODIED VOICE
Of another newscaster pulls me
from my self-absorbed reverie.
He’s . . . on the TV. Darian’s TV.
And he’s saying something about
A strong unexpected Taliban
offensive in the Helmand
Province of Afghanistan.
Not that. Not more. Turn it off.
Hurry. I try not to listen, but I
can’t help but hear
. . . numerous casualties among
the civilian population, as well
as coalition forces . . .
A flick of the remote. Blessed
silence. I can’t watch the news.
Too much information bloats
the omnipresent fear, floating
like high, thin clouds on the far
horizon. Better not to wonder
or suspect. Better simply to know,
even if that knowledge brings pain.
Finally, Darian sweeps back
into the room. Okay. Let’s go.
You’re still good to drive, right?
“If I’m not, you still remember
how, right? Anyway, when did you
become an adult?” Necessary banter.
BANTER AS DISTRACTION
Works well, as does an evening
out, away from the confinement
of home, where I know I’d do nothing
but stress over bad things beyond
my control. It’s good, being with
Darian, who has somehow found
her way back into her comfort zone.
Since it’s my birthday dinner,
I get to choose the restaurant, and
settle on a favorite Mexican place
on the beach. Glad you went cheap,
since I’m buying, says Dar. Happy
birthday. Oh, keep it around five
bucks, okay? I think she’s kidding
but I’m not sure until she laughs.
It’s the high, pure Darian laugh
I know and really appreciate tonight,
because it’s been a while since
I’ve heard it. She orders drinks—
margaritas on the rocks, with pricey
tequila that flashes me back to
Jaden, but only momenta
rily.
At least it’s a pleasant snapshot.
We decide to share a huge platter
of sizzling fajitas, con guacamole
y salsa verde, and as we wait for
the food, I consider asking for details
about her and Kenny. Decide not to
risk it. I don’t want to spoil the mood.
I AM, IN FACT
A little surprised when Dar brings
up the subject herself. Sort of, anyway.
We’ve been talking about the wedding,
and maybe going shopping for a dress.
If you want something kind of unique,
I know a great, little boutique with
decent prices, she says. Sabrina and I
picked out her prom formal there.
“Sabrina is Kenny’s daughter,
right?” She nods, opening the door.
“So, what’s going on with you two?
You’re not still moving in together.”
The last sentence was a statement.
That decision had been made.
No. But he did still buy the house
at Hermosa Beach. I’m glad.
I loved that little place. Her voice
is sad, and now I’m sorry the subject
came up. I keep telling myself things
happen for a reason. I’ll always love
Kenny. No man has ever been that
good to me. But I still love Spence,
too, despite the water stagnating
under our bridge. And right now,
he needs me. Funny, but when you
mentioned I became an adult, you were
right. Don’t know if that’s good or bad.
But it had to happen sooner or later.
GROWN-UP OR NOT
I’m having a great time with Dar tonight,
despite brief flashes of Soleil’s face
intruding now and then. We finish dinner,
take it relatively easy on the tequila,
and I feel totally capable of driving
the short distance to the coffee house
that’s hosting the slam tonight.
It’s not quite as crowded as the last
one, and much more informal.
A gig more for fun than a chance
at prizes. We arrive a little before eight,
when it’s supposed to get underway,
and are looking for a place to sit
when I hear my name over my shoulder.
Ashley. It’s Jonah. I’m glad you came
tonight. Darian and I both turn,
and Jonah kisses me on the cheek.
Darian shoots me a look meaning,
how about an introduction? “Oh.
Sorry. Darian, this is Jonah. Uh . . .
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