USA

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White-Knuckle Romance

1.

For all I knew, George could have been Sid Vicious
without the rotten egg smell or a balding fat guy
with his butt crack showing. I've never seen him.
In Maine, my friends smoked out with George
& often broke into burly imitations of him
out of the corners of their mouths, swearing
allegiance to his best grunts.
George's an old Indian guy,
so punk rock, he don't talk,
don't take shit from no one, they said.

2.

Chu's House of Lovely Animals

My new house possesses me.
Neighbors hang out with their red-faced
toddlers close to the porch, and my chimes
beg for more wind. Miles from the Sunset,
away from the old rental and roommates
with their rotating sublets,
my husband's dreams are radiant,
almost improbable. Even my mother
can't upset him when she makes us bow
to a slab of barbecued pork, placed over
the threshold, and says, Don't be stupid—
The house faces West! Those characters
written on the back fence aren't for Feng Shui,
aren't for promoting prosperity.
They say, Chu See Tzung Mutt
or Chu's House of Lovely Animals.
Never has the thought of surviving
on tomato soup made from McDonald's
leftover creamers and ketchup
seemed more joyous. Even the cat
is experiencing her second childhood,
galloping down the hallway
like a herd of small elephants.
Whatever my husband's ideas
for the next twenty years, I want to hear them
again and again: winning a million
in the Pillsbury Bake-Off,
raising the house to build
a three-car garage, renovating
the attic into a master bedroom
with a skylight to the world…
I'm ready to be happy.

Hovering

He didn't have to fortify his sperm
with zinc so they could swim faster
on their way to the egg
as the herbalist advised. Too late
for her to practice fertility awareness.
He didn't have a chance to finish
unpacking and packing the containers
of recycled paper, lava lamps,
and monster model kits. She had blue-lined
in the shortest conceivable time,
a small window opening
in the month of hauling boxes
from the old house to the new. He thought
it could have passed if the sperm
hadn't been the Weissmuller
of sperms. Big fat baby boys, she laughs,
tacks the embroidered scroll
of 100 children—an unbroken line
of boys and girls chasing butterflies
and catching birds—next to her bed.
He goes back to building bookcases
for an hour, waiting for the idea
to take root. Our child is the size
of a strawberry. In twelve weeks,
he will have a neck, she says to the air.
She must have flipped
the perfect Vitamin E-enriched
vegetarian diet-fed egg
into her fallopian tubes,
he mumbles, rubbing his stomach.
When the chanting Pygmies CD
gives her a side pain, she switches
to Eno's Neroli to soothe
the amniotic fluid and embryo,
music on the cusp of melody
and texture, hovering weightless.

For days before, George had to thrive on a diet of Jello and milk of magnesia.
As soon as the nurse carted him, his medical records, and container of polyps
into the gritty white recovery area, he bellowed, I want a mocha and a cookie!
He lurched as if to pull out his IV. I begged, Honey, rest. The nurse copied,
savagely cooing, Honey, rest, since Honey was a word he responded well to.
He laid back down. I shook the plastic container, watched the effervescent
red polyps bounce against the walls, and wondered if he had an intestine left.
He’s better this year, the nurse snapped. He had thirty taken out last time.
I didn’t think he had that many taken out. It was more like twelve I thought.
George sat straight up still groggy, I’m done resting. Give me my food.
As I ran for the snack counter downstairs, I heard the nurse screaming,
You’re drinking juice because I’m the boss. I was afraid she might
give him something stronger to put him out, like a baseball bat to the head.
When I returned upstairs, she grabbed my elbow and pulled me aside.
He doesn’t need to know you’re back. Sedated people injure themselves
with hot beverages. She claimed he had already swallowed his juice
like a shot of tequila and crushed the Dixie Cup. Then he was spotted stealing
chocolate kisses from her station. An hour later I was allowed back in,
carrying the cold coffee and a peanut butter cookie. I can’t have that now.
George wanted to know why he was wearing a dress with no underwear--
memory loss, an obvious benefit of Demerol. I helped him with his jeans.
Later, when I told him about the coffee, his drug-fueled rants, and the polyps,
he mumbled, Next time I’ll get a local. If I’m going to be belligerent,
I might as well remember it and enjoy myself.

George and I plan to have children one day.
Right now, we have a cat that eats a lot.
On one of our usual raids at Goodwill
to find stock to sell on eBay, George scores
an Eichhorn building block set. Thirty pieces.
High quality. Wooden. All painted
and ready to build. That would be great
for our kids someday, I say. "They can have
the toys we can’t sell—like this GI Joe
with one leg," George says, dangling
the mangled plastic in front of me. Yeah
and we can tell them, "Children, this is a true hero.
A battle-scarred GI Joe. He lives in the real world.
The ones in the toy stores in their original boxes,
they’re cowards. You don’t want those."

© All Copyright, Priscilla Lee.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.