It will kill him to hear that / 9/19/09 Melinda Jean

It’ll kill him to hear that.
He’s already dead in ways that lie dormant
Like a frightened possum
The more you poke the stiller it gets.
A funny reaction.
Really the thought of telling him originally is to wake up this that is dead.
To have the presence of exchange.
The frame that is promised initially is trust.
Yet the other can have criteria that are
Cradles from the past
Fall or rock, you take the chance
It seems every time
You take the chance,
Believing that a place of safety and connection
Can be created
For that underground world of the dead.

Why We Broke up in the First Place 9/19/09 / Melinda Jean

Why we broke up in the first place
Second place
And third
Home base and he’s out.

It seems chilly in the before thought of breaking up.
Chiller still after. The silent absence weighted like a bottomless pit.
Topless, I can imagine her boobs saying desperately, reaching for home plate. Yet the referee shouts “out,” it’s too late, too late.

For the guy it’s some image you don’t quite match.
For the woman, the loss is the consistency, and she’ll notice it missing.
The elevator going up but there is no floor.
The stakes get higher, rising
Each floor more baggage is added.
And then it’s like a stroke.
That irregular cut off that effects the existence of the relationship itself.
Some strokes you survive, others
Well, it’s the reason you broke up in the first place.

How to be Happy / Dec 12, 09 / Melinda Jean

Reach out
Stay in
Pull the stray lingering hairs off your sweater.
Pet the curls of kitties.
Graze on all the frozen grass
Drink the cocoa, hot
Make your bed
Make-up your face
Listen to sirens knowing
they’re going to help.
Know things change
Put on a new thing
Reach, stay, linger
Pet, graze, drink
Make, listen
Help, know
Change.

Momentary Lapse of Irresponsibility / Melinda Jean

He saw her through the window. She was in her curlers pealing apples from the tree. It was late or fall, the clocks moving forward backwards, he didn’t know. He pulled the squeaky screen door. She turned. The bowl half-full, pieced apples that had been cut away from the worms.
“I feel bad, I’m taking away their homes, but most of them have left their hollows.” She was talking about the worms, he smiled.
“I’ve been thinking,” he started. An apron was taut around her melon belly; it pressed against the porcelain sink. She turned the water off. The tap drip, drip dripping.
She saw in his hand a golden shaped dolphin. He’d given her a sliver one when they meet; he had traded some artwork.
“You think, I think, married is, we should. Do you want to?” He had moved closer, her belly pushing into him.
It was dark out but still early. She thought maybe they could make it.

Scissors with black handles / Melinda Jean

The idea, owning her own. Grandmother was a seamstress and her anxiety around Andrea using them made sewing a task not a pleasure, which she dearly resented as the smell of fabric, could seduce her.
The sound the paper pattern made when her hand swept across the crinkles flattening it onto the cotton print. Pinning each long pin with its brightly colored balls on top. When the brown shaped tissue lie with all the pin-tops showing she felt she was part of some tiny celebration, a carnival of sorts. Then moving the blackhandled scissors the sharp precise blades coming together as the fabric fell to either side freeing it into the possibilities of becoming something. The thoughts of the finished dress, putting it on and all the places she could go dazzled her. Excitement filled her limbs. She almost shook with happiness as she pressed each seam through the zipper foot. The singer clomp clomping along, the rhythm of her own life, her own dress and one day her own scissors.

Refrigerator Art / Melinda Jean

To her it was art. The pictures of her niece and nephew, the Chronicle’s worn photo of the Obamas gleefully all hand and hand in coordinated colors.
To Him it was clutter.
She moved a few feet away, “How’s that?”
He moaned then smiled.
From year to year the pictures of her beautiful niece with the beautiful brown eyes, younger in black and white and then later in color. She was special you could tell. Her mom in other photo leans in exuberant, a single mom their close relationship beaming back from the cream refrigerator.
She took off a few more.
He allowed the eye clutter not to disturb him.
They had been together for years.

Refrigerator Art- Cyndi

She stood and stared into the open fridge trying to decide what to eat, or even if she wanted to eat anything at all. She knew it was mealtime, but she just didn't feel that hungry, and with no one else in the house she thought it was kind of pointless to cook very much anymore. Slowly she shut the door part way until the light went out and she caught a glimpse of paper held up by magnets on the other side. She leaned against the door, shutting it all the way and relaxed her body- almost as if she were embracing the old appliance. There were more and more pieces of colored papers all over the fridge- wrinkled, tattered and faded from the passing of the years. She gave in and let herself wander down the path of times past, when the house bustled with the chatter of childrens voices. And it was not just her own that had filled the space that was now so empty around her. There had always been a parade of friends in and out, having meals and snacks, hanging out and adding to the general revelry that always seemed to be a part of their home. She tentatively reached out her hand to touch the worn pictures and recalled the preschool days of finger paints and learning the alphabet. Then came the grade school years with each kid in turn doing the same required art projects, only putting their own slant on it when it was their turn and making it uniquely theirs. Middle school brought academic awards and certificates and the poor fridge had overflowed as the papers gradually crept onto the side wall of the kitchen. They were taped in place, lower at first as far as the little arms could reach, and slowly the artwork climbed higher and higher as the kids grew. They had been reluctant to remove any, so the wall eventually became a gallery of sorts. Eventually some of the lower ones were taken down, as the dog they had begged for, started ripping into them.

Now the kids were grown and gone and there was nothing new from them to grace the sacred space. At first there had been postcards and a few letters, but now they only communicated by phone or email. You can't post that on the fridge! She sighed and opened the door again. Life moves on and so must she. She reached in and grabbed a plate of leftovers to warm in the microwave.

-Cyndi
January 16, 2010