jan 9, 2009 8:53 a.m.
with the long-limbed grace of seasoned danseur
you turned slowly from the dark visage of your patio at night
to peer at me from the corners of your eyes
you’re still tall
i rose up on the balls of my feet
my own lackluster relevé
neatly
but gracelessly
closing the space between your pursed lips and mine
Dear Sluggish United States Economy,
I can save you.
I own an extremely successful hamster factory in booming Kent, Ohio and I have a revolutionary plan that will imbue the nation’s coffers with much-needed raw capital.
Did you know according to the 2000 Census, there was upwards of 6.7 million hamster owners in the U.S.? That was 6 years ago. There’s got to be a shit-ton more by now.
Previously, Siberia maintained a tight stranglehold on nearly all dwarf hamster trade duties and ports. As I am sure you are well aware, getting your hands on primo hamster stock is much like trying to get a bear not to eat your nuts after you have dipped them in honey: it’s a sticky situation.
I am prepared to make you an offer unparalleled in its philanthropic and economic repercussions since Andrew Carnegie gave the rest of his tepid vanilla latte to Detroit, extolling citizens to “finish if you want to, because I am just going to throw it out.”
I will give you the fully 5 or 6 newborn hamsters I found under the exercise wheel when I got home from work last night.
You can then sell the blind, deaf and temporarily useful mammals to the scores of American consumers clamoring for more hamsters.
I assure you, Economy, they will prove to be worth their weight in gold. Plus, they are adorable.
In addition, the parents can supply more tiny noodle-babies at a rate of nearly 17 births every 10 seconds, or roughly, every time I turn a-fucking-round.
Perhaps you could find a loving home for these economic upswings with your acquaintances in our nation’s capitol.
I read The Honorable Ben Bernanke, former Chairman of the U.S. President’s Council of Economic Advisors and current Chairman of the United States Federal Reserve recently suffered the loss of his two Teddy-bear hamsters; Control of The Means of Production for Money Implies That the Government Can Always Avoid Deflation by Simply Issuing More Money and Wiggles.
Is there a better way to assuage his grief and ensure enhanced fiscal performance than to sell him a couple hamster pups?
Today I say to you, Economy, no there is not.
Once you have confirmed your agreement, I will present you with the hamster babies the parents did not eat in a ceremony befitting and possibly transcending the magnitude of this great moment. I implore you to look with favor upon the paltry suggestions of this humble hamster factory owner/industrialist.
Respectfully,
J——
She was poised to leave, her body already angled toward the front door. Instead, she quickly crossed the space between herself and the boy and pulled him into a rigid hug, before he could see her face.
“Joe, please. I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, careful not to let her lips touch his ear.
“Then stay,” he murmured.
He was technically still married.
She could feel him pressing tightly into her. His neediness was unnerving. She fixed her stare on the lamp in the corner, and then down to the coffee table, where the empty, post-bar bottles lined up in pairs would surely telegraph to anyone who cared he hadn’t come home alone.
“Have to go now, Joseph.”
She pulled back, but he kept his hands on her shoulders. The lamplight caught his blond hair and an oval of gold glowed around his head.
She smiled weakly. He had taken off his glasses.
i lay on the stairs
occupying exactly three treads:
one to press my forehead against;
another where my spine rested;
and the final for my feet
i wore white shoes, crossed at the ankle
you were mere yards away, you too curled around the pain of a mistake not quite made, but merely extended from an established course of action
i hope you forgive me - i hope you are not too hard on yourself
the cats didn’t come near us until you made me laugh.
you were wearing a sweater
your hair: sunspun amber against heathered grey
after you left
i stood on your porch
coffee mug warmth soothing nervous fingers
it felt like fall.
sunday morning softball fields
the dew not yet burned from shining silver benches
when you weren’t looking
i increased the space between us
on our dirty, shared bath towel.
I met this kid back in June, at one of those brainstorming sessions to which you are invited as only an after-thought, when the organizer is afraid things will be too quiet. I call him a kid, but he’s not. He is four years older than I.
He looks like a freshly-minted MBA-holder, all slate greys and polished chrome. I think he must pay a lot for his haircuts. He has wide, muscular shoulders that pull slightly against the seams of his crisp cotton button-downs.
The broad beauty of his shoulders tapers down to what I’m sure are closely monitored hips, the black slash of his perpetual patent leather belt suspended not by corporal softness, but by hard-packed sinew.
I still surreptitiously check his business calendar most days.
We had discovered we shared the same birthday. On the shaky pretense of this strained connection and based in no small measure on the merits of his tan, reedy wrists, I took a few seconds longer than needed to gather my notebook and pen. I timed it well. We walked out into the bright sunshine together.
After a few minutes of small talk, he asked me to lunch.
“Isn’t it only 10:30?” I said stupidly. I can’t conduct myself well around men I deem more attractive than I. Like some inverted Cinderella spell, I turn high-school awkward, bony elbows and frizzy hair, nervous giggles bubbling out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He, obviously flustered: “Oh, yeah. Of course. It is kinda early, I guess.”
I sensed my misstep and said we should certainly make plans for another day.
I’m not sure he heard me, as he darted between the rows of parked cars and into his standard-issue SUV.
astronomical odds realized:
two nice days in ohio, one right after another
i am watching the sky stream past
hazy blue suspended between softly sloping
telephone wires
my thoughts traverse an elliptical course
starting at your spindly arms; matchsticks folded
around themselves, milky forearms against
apple-green sleeves
now to the madrigal lilt of your cleanly-toned
voice
and finally, the penultimate point:
my own fingers, nailbeds gone white, clutching
the narrow expanse of your wrist
unrequited
inactionable
as he, not you, waits for me to come home