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From Penelope. Published by Gaspereau Press in 2017.
SLUMBER I wake confused. It’s noon somewhere, right? I’m asked. The visitors? I reply. Just fell asleep, I’m told. Are you really going to start a band? I’m asked. My recall, initially, is dutiful. Was it so terrible that I had sung? But then my ears feel the first scalloping heat of chagrin. Its warmth spreads as proclamations and boasts return to roost, shrill and pleased with themselves. How had I got up on the table and whose hat had I worn? Loss tends to its fires patiently. The shame I feel burns like paper. COMPLIMENTS The weeks wake to months. Years. Can we get another table in the beer tent? I’m asked. There’s a beer tent? I reply. I’m flustered. And I’m drunk. The visitors are potent compliments. They’ve never seen a better spoon, tasted better brew. Our harbour, according to them, is the finest they’ve laid eyes on. Each stone in its proper place, how had I come up with that? My cup is kept proficiently filled. And my tongue rallies back. I banter, I cajole. I screech the crooked logic women know when our hearts are aghast and silenced. I tend to the visitors with appalling decorum. They cheer me on, so I blow. I blow. Odysseus’s candle sputters then quits. I did that. FIRE I wake to dread. I banish questions so I can think. My dignity has been plucked. My dignity, pink-puckered and overexposed. My mouth lined in ash. The fire, started in revelry, has passed out. If I had tarted up my loneliness, if I am to claim my dark ripeness, I am now left craven to my own needs. The poison I taste is personal. My mouth abhors me and I abhor my mouth. If I had the energy to cut myself without mess, without bother, I would. And if Odysseus is a candle, who is the match? Not me. I am no longer to be trusted near open flame.