Sheltering at Twilight
A nod to Henry Miller
So slow and furiously am I compelled to live now, there is hardly an instant to write. My husband listens to Zoom in the bedroom. Someone’s muted ranting or raging about procedure. With jam or without? Baguettes or bread? Voices seep over the transom like musk oil or smoke—dirty wool rubbing the ears. I roll out naan on the cutting board in the kitchen. Press in cumin and garlic slices with a rolling pin, so they won’t fall out. I’m either doing that or thumbing up the walls of plumb tarts. For a minute, I smile before thinking. But all is eaten. Or fucked. Or driven. Or distracted. Thought I was someone once. There are rules about such things. What it means to be a mother. But it’s play-acting, like when we were in kindergarten and entered rooms of a playhouse. You’re the dad. I’m the mom. It felt real as a bureau drawer. Like tangerines, smog versus air, the upturned neck of a leaf among the Monet-hued leaves of my planter. A nail cut short, bleeding. That tick in its beginning. Flash of petticoat under my kindergarten dress, rustle of ruffles. Sand between my cracks when I forgot panties and played in the sandbox at recess. I wondered if anyone knew. Wet grains chafing. Even then I was guilty, even now falling. A pink light in the living room comes on across the street in an old lady’s house. White lights hang like gemstones on the neighbor’s garage. Three eyes of windows face the street, talkative as trees. A young woman walks to her rusty car outside my window. She tilts her falsely red hair to her young man. I go from Bremerton to Paris, stroll with my husband on the avenues of Montmartre or through the statues of Musée d'Orsay. The couple separates in diagonals to either side of the car. Drive away without feeling my connection. Their taillights, red. Headlights, small coins of little worth. The day sky slinks into its crepuscular death so easily forgotten until dinner without bread. Without butter.
Amy K. Genova is a former teacher, but always a writer. She recently self-published a chapbook of prose poetry, Flavor Box: 7 Words Repurposed, available on Amazon. Also, three ekphrastic poems were chosen for the 2020 Ars Poetica show on Bainbridge Island, Washington. Among other publications, her memoir entitled, “Moving,” appeared in Stonecrop Magazine, No. 1. Poetry publications include 3 Elements, Homestead Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, and many others.