let you succumb to temptation. She is
past Papa, hands moving toward me.
They fall. I don’t dare try to defend
myself. I’ve been here before. Tears
sting my eyes. From the pain of her blows.
And from the heartbreak tomorrow holds.
Heartbroken
Face bruised, eyes swollen almost
shut from crying, no way can I go
to church today. Mama would stay,
to keep an eye on me, but it happens
to be Mother’s Day. All the ladies will
turn out in their best dresses, to be celebrated.
Don’t you dare take one step out
of this house, Mama warns. If you
do, I’ll know, I promise you that.
I’ll take care of Mr. McCarran, too.
As soon as the car is out of sight,
I rush to the phone. Thank God
Andrew is still home. Hey. I was just
heading out the door. Everything okay?
The whole ugly tale comes gushing
out, and I can’t believe I dare to beg,
“Hurry and come pick me up. Please!”
It may be a very long time before I get
to see him again. I need to see him today.
Right away. Even looking the way I do.
Twenty Minutes Later
I am in Andrew’s arms, crying softly
against his chest. He lets me whimper
for a few minutes, then pushes me
gently away and says, Look at me.
Let me see what she did. His hands
are kind as they soothe the bruises,
trace the contours of my face. But
his eyes smolder, hot with anger.
How could anyone do something
like that to their child? he demands.
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters
is how we can see each other now.
Without you, my life is meaningless.
Without you, I have nothing to live for.”
Don’t say that! And don’t mean that.
You have everything to live for. We’ll
figure something out. I promise. He
tugs me back into his arms. I promise.
I Want to Stay
Knotted to Andrew forever, warm
and safe, and loved. But he insists
I am home before my parents get
back from church. Don’t give her
a reason to hurt you. Please, Eden.
It’s my fault she did this to you.
I start to argue, but he won’t let me,
and he won’t let me stay any longer.
One last quick kiss and he urges, Just go.
If she catches you, who knows how long
it will be before we can see each other
again? I love you. Now go on.
He’s right, of course, and I hurry. But
when I turn the corner, I can see
our car in the driveway. My stomach
lurches, like I’m in an elevator and
the cable snaps. I fall to my knees
and vomit until there’s nothing left
but cramps. I wobble to my feet,
up the sidewalk, and in the front door.
Mama Is Waiting
Sitting on a straight-backed chair,
facing the door. You were with him
just now, weren’t you? She already
knows the answer. Why try to lie?
The truth is doubtless magnified by
the tear storm in my eyes. “Yes.”
I expect the same chaotic anger
she threw at me yesterday. She stands,
and my muscles clench. But she stays
remarkably calm as she approaches.
I knew it when he didn’t show up
at church today. I’m not sure why
it took me so long to realize what
the two of you were up to sitting
back there…. Her jaw goes tight,
and her left hand reaches for me.
I wince, but she simply slides her
arm around my shoulder, guides me
toward the kitchen. We need to talk.
I’ll make some tea. She pushes me
into a chair. My stomach churns acid
as I watch her put two cups of water
into the microwave, reach for teabags
and sugar. Silence overwhelms the room
until she puts the steaming cups onto
the table. Get the cream, please.
I go to the refrigerator, take the cream
from its reserved spot on the top shelf.
Mama pours a little in each cup, hands
me the carton, which I return to its place.
Wordlessly she hands me a cup, takes
a sip of her own, gestures for me
to do the same. The tea is sickeningly
sweet, but I don’t dare not drink it.
Finally she says, There can only be one
explanation for such total disobedience.
Head spinning, I wait for her to finish.
You are obviously possessed by demons.
A Poem by Seth Parnell
Demons
I never believed
in demons or monsters
But lately I’ve started to
wonder
if evil hasn’t in fact
infiltrated this world,
slithering streets and
sidewalks, wearing
what-
ever disguise suits its
immediate purpose.
When a choirboy
is molested, is it by
the devil
in a priest costume?
Or does Satan play
a more clever game
to get what he
wants?
To win the contest,
accomplish his goals,
might the prince of hatred
mask himself as love?
Seth
I Never Realized
What a bogus holiday Mother’s
Day is until I didn’t have
a mother anymore. No one
to send flowers to. No one
to cook a special breakfast for.
The ironic thing is, my mom
used to call Mother’s Day
a “Hallmark holiday.” You
know, something invented
to buy pricey greeting cards for.
I know how much my men
love me, she said more
than once. I sure don’t need
a three-dollar card or candy
to prove that there fact to me.
Regardless, Dad and I
always sprang for some
silly card, with glittery
roses, spring greenery,
and flowery sentiment.
Maybe Hallmark should invent
some new holidays, like Dead
Mother’s Day. They could tweak
their old motto: When you still
care enough to send the very best.
Only where would you send it to?
Better yet, how about Breaking
Up Day? They could invent a new
motto: A cheerful good-bye when
you don’t give a damn anymore.
No Card
To ease the pain of Loren
leaving today. Part of me
doesn’t want to see him.
I’m not much good at
good-byes. But the bigger
part wants to hold him one
last time. Wants to haul
him off into the bedroom,
make love to him, convince
him he can never go away.
Dread simmers in my gut.
Approaching Loren’s door,
it works itself into a full boil.
&nb
sp; I reach for the bell, change
my mind, let myself in with
the spare key Loren gave me.
“Hello?” Even as the word
slips past my lips, I know
he’s not here. He rented
the apartment furnished.
Couch. Coffee table. Easy
chair. Nothing missing.
Nothing except Loren.
His absence overwhelms
the room. “Loren?” I say it,
knowing it’s useless, follow
the silence into the bedroom.
The closet and bureau drawers
are empty. The only trace
of Loren is a hint of his cologne.
That, and a note left on
the bed, beside rumpled
memories: Dearest Seth,
I’m sorry to have left you
this way, but I couldn’t say
good-bye face-to-face. Total
coward, I know. Rent is paid
through the end of the month.
Go ahead and use the place
until then, if you want. I’ll
write you once I’m settled, okay?
I wish I could see you graduate.
It’s such a big day—the start
of the rest of your life. Enjoy!
I love you very much. Loren.
I Haven’t Cried
Since Mom died. I mean, after
something like that, what’s
left to cry about, right?
But I let myself cry now.
Loss is loss. Doesn’t take
death to create it. My legs give
way. I slide to the floor next
to the bed, rest my head
against the bare mattress.
I can smell him there, smell
us there. I reread the note.
Phrases jump out at me:
… see you graduate … rest
of your life … love you …
Suddenly, certainly, it hits me.
Loren won’t cheer for me
when I get my diploma.
He isn’t including himself
in the rest of my life. He
isn’t coming back. Ever.
Why didn’t I get that sooner?
All the hurt I’ve been holding
dissipates, like a ghost in sun-
light. Something dark replaces
it—a black tidal wave of anger.
How could Loren dare say
he loves me? You can’t
walk away from someone
you love, leave them
drowning in your desertion.
If love has no more meaning
than that, you can keep it.
I don’t want it now or ever
again. Don’t want to hear
the word or wear its scars.
I’ll go back to the farm,
to fields rich with hope.
Go back to my books, prep
for finals. I’ll celebrate leaving
high school. And then what?
Suddenly I’m Thirsty
And not for water or soda.
What’s calling is a stiff
shot of good ol’ Kentucky
bourbon. Maybe Loren
left a little behind. I go to
the kitchen, half-hopeful.
But the cupboards, like
the closet, are not only
empty but spotless. That’s
Loren, okay. OCD clean.
Hell, I need to get out of
here anyway. I’ll go down-
town, find a way into Fringe.
I remember Loren saying,
All you need is a sponsor.
So I’ll go find a sponsor.
Some old Viagra-stiff
queen, hopeful that buying
a drink means buying a lay.
They were thick as flies
last time Loren and I went
to Fringe. And hey, if I find
one, he can think whatever
he likes. Wanting and getting
are two different things.
Sunday, Late Afternoon
The sidewalks aren’t especially
crowded. I don’t want to look
like I’m anxious for a date, so
I hang out a half block from
Fringe, trying to find the balls
to go up to some strange, lone,
obviously gay older dude
and ask if he’d like to sponsor
me past the familiar bouncer
at Fringe’s front door. And what
will that guy think? And why
do I care about that anyway?
Just as I’m sure I should give
up on this idea, an attractive
man, maybe fifty, gives me
exactly the right kind of smile—
interested but also hesitant,
as if he’s not positive why
I’m checking him out. Yes,
I think this one might just do.
The Smile
I return leaves zero room for
misinterpretation. Where
did I learn to be such
a flirt? This is a whole new
side of the not-so-static me.
Wonder if it’s business as
usual for the guy, who
on further inspection may
be a few years beyond fifty.
Still, he’s not bad-looking,
very well dressed. Familiar.
I’ve seen him before. Here?
I can barely make out his face. …
Yes, here. Oh, I remember.
The guy who stormed off,
leaving the younger guy to
follow him out the door.
He’s a regular, then. He’ll
know what I mean. I smile,
and he takes that in stride,
doesn’t flinch or look away.
I’ll take that as an invitation.
I walk right up to him,
hoping he likes the straight-
forward approach. “Hi. I’m Seth.
I was hoping to get into Fringe.”
His eyes, an odd, almost clear
blue, travel my body, starting
around thigh level. Finally
they lock onto my own eyes.
Pleased to meet you, Seth.
I’m Carl. And I happen
to be heading there myself.
I imagine you’re in need
of an escort. Care to join me?
Escort?
Seems to me I’m the one
escorting him, at least in
the classic sense of the word.
I guess he’s using it in place
of “sponsor.” Sounds less
like Alcoholics Anonymous,
but more like Rent-a-Guy.
Whatever. I’ve got my
ticket inside. “Thanks, Carl.
I appreciate the invitation.”
I fall in a step or two behind
him, note how well his pricey
clothing fits his slender body.
The security dude waves us
right through the door, not even
checking IDs. He recognizes
both of us, and if he’s surprised
I’m with someone other than
Loren, he hides it really well.
What I want now is whiskey.
Carl reads my mind, or maybe
it’s written all over my face.
The first drink is on me.
What’s your pleasure?
Kentucky permeates his accent.
“I’ll have a mint julep, please.”
In memory of Loren. Bastard!
I can’t believe he’d leave
without saying good-bye.
One drink will not be enough.
Carl gives me a funny look
but goes to the bar and returns
with two
frosty, mint-trimmed
glasses. He takes a long swallow.
Oh my, that is good, but not
for a novice drinker. Tell me
who introduced you to this
li’l libation. If it’s a long
story, so much the better.
He settles back into his chair.
I sip my julep, fight the sudden
blitz of memory. The second
swallow is bigger. The minty
burn clears my throat, trickles
down the esophagus, into my
rumbling belly. A little voice
warns, “Could be trouble.”
I tell it to shut up, look at
Carl to see if he might have
heard it. Or at least intuited it.
He wears a patient smile. Oh,
yes. He asked for the story.
I don’t want to talk about
Loren. But what the hell?
I’m drinking in his honor.
“I actually had my first one
of these right here, with my …”
The word sticks in my craw.
A gulp of bourbon clears
it, raises a nice, warm buzz.
Suddenly I want to talk, and
before I know it, I have
vomited the whole tale,
going all the way back
to Janet and how I lusted
after her football-player
brother, forward past
Mom and Dead Mother’s
Day, to Loren’s promises.
Betrayal. Ultimate desertion.
Carl Listens
Without comment, except
a nod every now and again.
When I finally slow to a stop,
he raises one finger, gets up
and goes to the bar. He comes
back with two more drinks
and a bowl of snack mix.
Thought you could use both
of these. He watches me dive
into the pair before saying,
One thing I’ve learned in one
or two years on this planet
is to put myself first. Love
is a fine thing while it lasts,
but rarely is it permanent.
We don’t know each other
at all, but if I might offer
a word of advice, gleaned
from many relationships?
He waits for a response,
and when I offer a nod, he says,
In lieu of love, lust will do nicely.
Now why don’t I buy us dinner?
I start to say no, and he hurries
to add, No strings attached.
Two Hours
Four courses of French cuisine
and two bottles of wine later,
my stomach is churning with rich food,
my head buzzing with alcohol.
Carl and I exit the restaurant