December 31, 2011. Gratitude. CWE 90

  1. Katie
  2. Friends
  3. Bunnies
  4. Christmas
  5. IPad!
  6. The hope that my headache will go away
  7. Nephews and niece
  8. Beautiful day
  9. Popcorn and cranberry garland
  10. Fireplace mantle
  11. Garden in the spring
  12. Planting the garden
  13. Binkies
  14. Movies
  15. Lazy days
  16. Unsweetened iced tea
  17. Prayer flags
  18. A job, even though I dread Monday
  19. Tulips
  20. Salads

December 30, 2011: Cotton. CWE 89

Cotton balls are small and seem weak.  They hover over your palm and float for a split second when you toss them in the air.  If you layer five of them and try to pull them apart, it’s not easy.  You might need to shift the small pile to align the fibers so that they will tear.  Cotton is white.  Pure white.  Unless it’s marred by mascara or colored with blood.  The contrast of dirtied cotton is stark.  Cotton is fibrous, like clouds.  It is wispy and stringy and fat and fluffy at the the same time, but it is more wispy than fluffy.  The fluffiness is an illusion.  A bag of cotton balls looks fluffy.  A single cotton ball looks weak.  Cotton balls smell like babies and hospitals.  I had cotton in my cheek yesterday after I had a tooth pulled.  I won’t tell you what that cotton looked like.  I’m kind of pissed at cotton right now because of the role it played in my day yesterday.  I’m not impressed with cotton at all.

December 29, 2011. Describe humidity. CWE 88

Humidity has big hands and heavy feet. Sweat drags dirt down his body in long trails. Dirt dries in the cuticles of his toenails. He smells like old sheets and rotten food left on the counter in a hot kitchen. He needs to shave. Sweat twists his whiskers into leggy spiders that crawl across his sunken face. Humidity has a swollen, sickly belly that tips him to the sides when he walks across the bedroom ceiling. Humidity leans over you and blows his steamy breath across your face when you try to sleep. His breath smells like rotten teeth and a dry yellow tongue. Pieces of his tongue slough off on your face and fall behind your neck. Humidity sits on your shoulder and bangs out an irregular rhythm with his heavy feet. He worms into your ear and taps louder and your ear pulses. Your body is heavy and too worn out to be angry, but if it weren’t so tired, your body would be getting into a car and heading off to a pawn shop to buy a gun and shoot a round up at the goddamned clouds that refuse to rain and release this heavy heat that’s rolling the world around in limp sheets at 4:30 in the morning.

December 28, 2011. Outer Banks. CWE 87

  1. Luggage
  2. Bay Bridge
  3. Route 13
  4. Katie
  5. Super Bass
  6. Bunk beds
  7. Margaritas
  8. 10:00 AM beers that are socially acceptable
  9. Sun dogs
  10. Raw oysters
  11. Crab legs
  12. Puzzles
  13. Mudslides
  14. Air hockey
  15. Stars, stars, stars
  16. Pool
  17. Oldies musIc
  18. Sand
  19. Family
  20. Bunny care
  21. Radios
  22. Avocado and sea salt
  23. Fajitas
  24. Hurricanes
  25. Ocean walks
  26. Reading
  27. Babies
  28. Laptop movies in bed
  29. Lazy days
  30. Ghost crabs
  31. Brew Thru!!!
  32. Harris Teeter
  33. Bad Bean Burrito
  34. Shopping with Mama Llama
  35. Treasure hunts with the kids

December 23, 2011: Describe butter. CWE 82

Butter is light as air and heavy as lead.  It is greasy.  It is a brilliant yellow and it leaves the sheen of gold coins on your fingers when you handle it.  Cold butter is a stubborn bitch.  It tears holes in toast and pulls apart rolls.  Warm butter is yielding and generous.  It disappears into dough.  It shines pans and makes breads glisten.  It carries a butterfly net over its shoulder and catches the light.  Butter falls off the knife and can be smeared any which way.  It drops from the peel of soft waxed paper into a bowl of flour, and the flour puffs gently.  Butter beaten with granulated sugar is decadent.  It is just shy of being a socially acceptable dessert.  I could eat it from a glass bowl with a silver grapefruit spoon.  I would do this and things like it if they were socially acceptable.  If the butter dripped from the corners of my lips and set my chin aglow, I’d wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and then carelessly wipe my forehead.  It would be orchestrated but I would make it look incidental.  I’d shine for you from across the table, and you would find me fresh and beautiful, glowing with fat under the chandelier.

December 22, 2011: Dragging Bodies. again. CWE 81

Dragging Bodies

Trains turn over on the rusty track below our window.  A cheap knit cap holds
your wet head.  You sleep in cursive letters. 

Clocks swing from fishing line strung across the bedroom.  Their palms slap out the seconds.  There’s not enough time to write the tomes of my love for you.  The garden settles in the dark night.  

We pull at the pulpy dirt.  You shake out thin nets of roots and hold plants above your head like small trophies.  Laughter splits your face.  Our legs are splayed.  We are children at play, grainy soil marking our faces with war paint.

Chard throws out maroon veins from woody spines.  Thyme grow in clumps that smell like warm bowls of lemons.  Rosemary stands tall, and crickets rub their armored legs in low whistles.  Warm piles of bunnies shake around tree trunks.  Crowns of cabbage bloom; purple and green leaves crimp.  The loose ruffles are frothy like wedding dresses.  They tumble over the garden’s edge.  

Wind lifts the scalloped hem of the patio umbrella.  You sleep in cursive letters.  I hold your soft face without my hands.  Laughter pushes tight in corners of the room.  Long underwear pulls between your knees.  We’ve been whispering secrets to one another for years.  The room is full of them, and they pull the air clean.  Your hairline stirs under the looping ceiling fan.  I want to squirrel away the pale hairs in my ears. 

We make drowsy love at 3:00 AM in a second floor apartment on Beech Street.  A bald man moves body bags downstairs, dragging them across the floor while we tumble under one another upstairs, half awake in the dark.  You pull words across my body.  The shaky seeds of the seeds of a heavy head of cabbage turn pale shades of purple when restless birds carry them down Union Street.