Of First Loves and High Heel Shoes

“First loves are high-heeled shoes,” he says. “They affect flesh and spirit—straighten spines, tighten thighs, make you walk like you own the galaxy. Your first changes you forever. No other will ever make you feel like I did.”

I watch him,

remember myself

wrapped in him.

“Once,” I tell him, “the sight of you pulled little moans out of my middle. The memory of us (skin-to-skin), your scent… made me want. But I don’t lust after the way I used to feel inside your body. First shoes are just shoes—perfect (once), but irrelevant after they no longer fit.”

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the wee notes…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to enjoy interesting tales. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have written about my old shoes.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where our sweetest Sanaa invites us to write about love, using a common everyday image.

 

Rejoice in Your Bicycle of Light and Shadow, I’m Getting Rum

I was asked to write a poem about space and time and a story inspired by the silhouette of an old-fashioned bicycle. So, I wrote of imaginative physics, bicycles… rum and magic.

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“You are someone else’s memories dancing in the arms of chaos,” the angel says, “time, space, colors and taste are made of flesh.” I say nothing, but senses are communal in worlds made of fear or will—I feel her feel my sister’s chant, delight in smugness made of love’s thoughts. “Impossible,” she says, when black, red and the scent of spirits unmake her reality.

She tries to speak again, but I touch a warm finger to the light and shadow of her lips, and whisper, “Shhh, my sister is witching.”

“Out of dark
shadow and light, I
conjure rum.”

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a wee note…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the writing yum. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have conjured out of shadowy bikes. And if you are feeling poetic and daring, try Physics with Björn: Space time and the special theory of relativity, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

photo by Jellico’s Stationhouse

A Stinker of a Time

If you’ve read me for more than a season, then you already know that my springs tend to be full of T.S. Eliot and The Waste Land. Who can resist inspiration like: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden / Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”

“A Stinker of a Time”

I learned the trade from Primavera the Fisher.

“Spring can’t stand botched up winter jobs,” Primavera said, the first morning she took me to the docks. “She always floats their mistakes to the surface. It’s a stinker of a time for us, even when their rot comes carrying gifts.”

Before I could ask what she meant, Primavera speared a severed hand that had been bobbing for sunlight. Its pinky finger wore a huge ruby ring.

“They’ll never be good at winter jobs, if they can’t keep a corpse from blooming in spring.”

In winter, it’s best to bury or burn.

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a wee note…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the writing bloom. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have fished out of the docks.

photo by Fatima Fakier Deria