Month: December 2014

Half a Mannequin

I’ve decided to put an excerpt of a poem in the memo line for each check I write. Just another way to curate and disseminate poetry content.

If I had to be half a mannequin, I don’t know if I’d rather be the top half or the bottom half.

My hair and I have entered an awkward phase in our relationship.

I want to be a moth in my next life. The cocoon appeals to me far more than the womb.

When does inquiry into illness become an inquisition against the body?

I think I’ll induce a temporary chemical lobotomy by taking lorazepam. Then I’ll stare at the wall like a good girl.

If a form asks what state I live in, is “Chaos” an appropriate response?

The dog woke me up just in time to watch this great NutriBullet infomercial.

After we swallowed one another, we contained the world.

Music is like a second heartbeat.

Someone has short-sheeted my life.

Ghosts keep following me home. The living tell me I shouldn’t feed them, so I do.

Last night I dreamed that I cooked myself for dinner. Ten minutes. One pot of boiling water. Enough to serve all my friends—and one enemy.

I came home tonight smelling like other people, and I liked it.

I will not give thanks for anything I do that causes another living being to suffer.

I’ve been wearing this day inside out and backwards.

Sometimes breath passes for language.

Today, I asked my husband to bring me some almonds. He misunderstood me and went off in search of condoms.

The long arm of the blah.

If I collect enough books, my belongings will be so heavy I won’t ever be able to run away from home.

I’m trying to live like a hamster: little piles of the things that sustain me tucked all around my living space.

Sometimes I mistake the table of contents of a literary journal for a poem, and I think, This poem is really weird.

I am a pajama-based life form.

Erotic or chihuahua? While watching television, I feel a tongue begin to lick my big toe.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something warm presses against me while I am sleeping.

Erotic or chihuahua? I yawn, and suddenly there is a tongue in my mouth.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something brings me little gifts each day, tokens of affection. A squeaky toy. A ball.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something says, I could nuzzle in your bosom for hours. I will never leave you.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something goes to pieces whenever my husband and I kiss. Something cries. Something wails. Something tries to wedge itself between us.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something kicks my husband in the back repeatedly until he is forced to get out of bed. Then it rolls over and says, “Hold me.

Erotic or chihuahua? Something says, I will watch bad movies with you, all the ones you love. Ice Castles. Legend. Sweet November. That is how devoted I am to you.

Marriage, Part Three

Marriage —

A game of rock, paper, scissors where both parties keep choosing rock.

Marriage —

Partner 1: The bird flies near me.

Partner 2: The bird flies through me.

Marriage —

In the living room, my husband antagonizes me with a teddy bear hand puppet before running around in circles singing “Brown Sugar.”

Marriage —

My husband chases me through the house after realizing I’ve covertly filmed him running around in circles singing “Brown Sugar” while wearing a teddy bear hand puppet. He makes me promise I’ll never show it to anyone. I agree, knowing the power lies not in sharing the video but rather in having the video.

Marriage —

My husband and I agree that we really need to get out of the house. Seven hours later, we still haven’t made it out of the house. Things are not looking promising for the next seven hours, either.

Marriage —

Partner 1: I’m agreeing with you.

Partner 2: No, I’m agreeing with you.

Partner 1: No, I’m agreeing with you.

Partner 2: No, I’m agreeing with you.

Partner 1: No, I’m agreeing with you.

Partner 2: No, I’m agreeing with you.

Marriage —

My husband is using a flashlight to navigate his way through our house because it’s so dark in here. It’s 4 p.m.

Marriage —

My husband has placed the flashlight in his mouth. His cheeks are glowing red. He says the light is illuminating the vitreous gel inside his eyes.

Marriage —

My husband always eats half a banana and leaves the other half to die a slow, awkward death on the kitchen counter.

Marriage —

There’s a laundry standoff, and we’re both out of underwear.

Marriage —

I thought I’d discovered a new life form growing out of the sofa, then I realized it was just my husband taking a nap with his head wedged between two seat cushions.

Marriage —

Partner 2: Will you empty the dishwasher?

Partner 1: The dishes need to cool off.

Partner 2: How long will that take?

Partner 1: At least several days.

Marriage —

Partner 2: You can’t kiss me right now.

Partner 1: Why not?

Partner 2: I just put on lip gloss, and I don’t want it to get messed up.

Partner 1: Can I kiss you later?

Partner 2: We’ll see.

Marriage, Part Two

Marriage —

Partner 1: I made soup.

Partner 2: Oh, great!

Partner 1: I made soup for myself.

Marriage —

Partner 2: I need you to do _______ and _______ and _______ and _______ and _______.

Partner 1: (In robot voice) Too many inputs. Overload. Must shut down.

Marriage —

Partner 1: Where did all the candy go?

Marriage —

Partner 2: I wish you talked to me the way you talk to Google Glass.

Partner 1: You want me to give you voice commands?

Marriage —

Partner 2: Take me out to dinner.

Partner 1: Shut up.

Marriage —

Partner 1: I made this five-course meal for you.

Partner 2: It’s five kinds of raw, chopped vegetables.

If my husband and I ever renew our wedding vows, this will be what I say to him:

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart, I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat. ― Jorge Luis Borges

Marriage ―

I remind my husband to call his father. He knows why he needs to do so. The day wears on. My husband forgets, or he lets himself forget. The last thing my father-in-law said to my husband was, I am so lonely. So lonely without her.

Marriage ―

My husband waits until he’s two hours late to call and let me know he’s running late.

Marriage ―

My husband accidentally calls me by our dog’s name several times a day.

Marriage —

Partner 1: Are you really eating that for breakfast? Cake and soda?

Partner 2: Yes.

Marriage —

The Thorntons and the Martins have very different ways of dealing with adversity. The Martins are, as their name implies, wispy as little birds tossed on difficulty’s winds. The Thorntons, also true to their name, shoot a ton of thorns when challenged. (Thornton is my mother’s maiden name. It’s where I get my sting.)

Marriage —

Partner 1: When someone closes a door, turn around and walk away.

Partner 2: When someone closes a door, break down the entire wall.

Marriage, Part One

Marriage —

Partner 1: I can’t talk to you without taking anxiety medicine.

Partner 2: I can’t talk to you without drinking soda.

Marriage —

I get it. Sometimes I am aimless. Sometimes I dawdle. Sometimes I get distracted. There are times when my husband is completely justified in hurrying me along. But when I am in the middle of having a bowel movement? That is not one of those times.

Marriage —

Partner 1: Even though I don’t like you, I like everything about you.

Marriage —

Partner 1: I don’t want to be around anyone smart.

Partner 2: You’re safe with me.

Marriage —

Partner 1: What about when I wear hats? Do you like me more then?

Partner 2: No.

Marriage —

In which Partner 1 plays menacing metal tunes on his digital guitar.

In which Partner 2 learns to play “Teenager” by the Deftones on her flute, then takes the piece up an octave.

Marriage —

Partner 1: You smell so good today. What’s different?

Partner 2: I bathed.

Marriage —

Partner 2: Why do you keep attaching yourself to me when I enter the room?

Partner 1: Because I’m playing Tetris, but with people.

Marriage —

Partner 2: Let’s go to the bookstore.

Partner 1: Sure. Why don’t we go to __________.

Partner 2: Not that one. They only have smart books.

Marriage —

Partner 1: Do you see this bag of chips? Eat no more than one-half of this bag. Half. H-A-L-F. No more than that. (Draws an invisible line down the middle of the bag with right index finger.)