| Jennifer Lagier USA pcmc@igc.org Nostalgia Noir Dad folded woodpeckers from white paper sheets. Bird beaks opened wide when we pinched their triangular wings. He was young and wild, loved adventures, couldn't quite settle down. Mom believed in fairy tales, granted wishes and a rescuing prince. One bad year green fireballs spun from greasy pipes, sweaty walls stung, and a sagging roof fell. I remember the afternoon she cursed and quit, wishing all of us dead. He crumpled my tin airplane in one meaty fist. Now his heart forgets to beat. He dreams of suffocation, crawls on useless legs between her empty rooms. Purple radiation scars maim my mother's gouged chest. She grinds her teeth, imagines thieves, yells at trespassing death. We never talk of ancient times when this broken family still laughed. Going Native A small deer springs onto wet lawn from blackberry brambles. I stand, hold my breath and watch her bobbing ears as she sashays through rhododendrons, dissolves against firewood stacked between neighboring houses. Around us, invisible children chirp and shriek. The mailman delivers bad news or bills. I balance accounts of my failing marriage, ready myself to stand exposed, stepping out from the shadows. This morning I rehearse the tightrope promenade past waiting cross hairs, return to the wild. A Woman Possessed I saw my grandmother pull herself into my young body using sleep's open mouth. I told myself it was her hands dicing garlic, slicing pasta, pulling weeds from the garden. Now I wonder if I also absorbed her Catholic demons. What alien voice throws rocks from my lips, makes those I love bleed? Each night a dark succubus tills my subconscious, plants poisonous thistles. © All Copyright, 2000,
Jennifer Lagier. |