Three hours is a long time, astraddle
a 747’s wing, banshee engines
screaming, earachy babies fussing,
elderly seatmate complaining.
Can’t stand flying.
Makes me nauseous.
I get nauseous when vid screens
play movies I’ve seen three times,
seat belt signs deny pee breaks
and first class smells like real food.
Pretzels?
For this ticket price?
For the price, I’d expect Albert to
tone down the gripe machine. I closed
my eyes, tried to shut him out, but second
run movies can’t equal conversation.
My wife died last year.
Been alone since.
I’ve been alone since my mom met Scott.
He sucked the nectar from her heart
like a famished butterfly. No nurture,
no nourishment left for Kristina.
A vacation is a poor substitute
for love.
Two Hours into the Flight
Albert snored, soft
as a hummingbird’s
hover. His moody
smile suggested he’d
found his Genevieve,
just beyond time
just beyond space
just beyond this continuum.
I watched his face,
gentled by dreams,
until sun winks off
the polished fuselage
hypnotized me,
not quite asleep
not quite conscious
not quite in this dimension.
I coasted along a
byway, memory,
glimpses of truth
speed bumps
within childish
belief,
almost ultimate
almost reliable
almost total insanity.
Daddy waited
in the dead-end
circle, reaching
out for me.
I couldn’t
find his embrace
find his answers
find his excuse for tears.
Faster. Faster.
He’d waited too
many years for
me to come looking.
Hadn’t he? I
needed to see
needed to know
needed a lot more.
Hot Landing
Hot runway.
Hot brakes.
Hot desert sand
outside the window,
wind-sculpted crystalline
slivers, reflecting a new
summer’s sun.
Good-bye, young lady.
Good-bye, Albert.
Good-bye, toupee.
Good-bye, dentures.
Good-bye, in-flight
glimpses of a soul,
aching, and dreams,
fractured, injuries only
death could cure.
Have a nice vacation.
You too.
You relax.
You pretend to have fun.
You share a toast with me:
here’s to seasonal
madness, part-time
relatives and
substitutes for love.
The Prince of Albuquerque
June is pleasant in Reno,
kind of breezy and all.
I boarded the plane in
clingy jeans and a
long-sleeved T. Black.
It’s a whole lot hotter in Albuquerque.
I wobbled up the skywalk,
balancing heavy twin carry-ons.
Fingers of sweat grabbed
my hair and pressed it
against my face.
No one seemed to notice.
I scanned the crowd at the gate.
Too tall. Not tall enough.
Too old. Way too old.
There, with the sable hair,
much like my own.
How was it possible?
I thought he was much better
looking, the impression
of a seven-year-old whose
daddy was the Prince
of Albuquerque.
I melted, sleet on New Mexico asphalt.
Mutual Assessment
Daddy watched the gate, listing
a bit as he hummed a bedtime
tune, withdrawn from who knows
which memory bank.
“Daddy?” Roses are red, my love.
He overlooked me like sky
above a patch of dirt,
and I realized he, too, searched
for a face suspended in yesterday.
Peculiar eyes, blue-speckled
green like extravagant eggs,
met my own pale aquamarine.
Assessing. Doubt gnawing.
“Hey.” Sugar is … Kristina?
He hugged me, too tightly. Nasty
odors gulped. Marlboros. Jack
Daniels. Straightforward B.O.
Not like Scott’s ever-clean smell.
I can’t believe how
much you’ve grown!
“It’s been eight
years, Dad.”
From daddy to dad
in thirty seconds. We were
strangers, after all.
I Got in a Car with a Stranger
A ’92 Geo, pink under
primer, not quite a
princely coach. Dad and
I attempted small talk.
How’s your sister?
“Gay.”
Sequestered on a California
campus. When she outed,
I cringed. Mom cried.
You called her queer.
How’s your mother?
“Older.”
Prettier, gift-wrapped
in 40ish self-esteem, a
wannabe writer and workout
fanatic, sweating ice.
How’s what’s-his-name?
“Indifferent.”
Either that or flat in my
face, yet oddly always
there exactly when I
need him. Unlike you.
And how are you?
“Okay.”
Near-sighted. Hormonal.
Three zits monthly.
Often confused.
Lusting for love.
“You?”
Same.
Small Talk Shrank to Minuscule
Hot? Not! Wait till August!
The carriage burped. Screeched.
Hiccupped. I tightened my seat-belt,
like that could save me.
Straight A’s, huh? Got your brains
from your old man.
I was starting to doubt it.
No air-con, windows down,
oil flavored the air.
Conversation took an ugly turn.
Never been laid? Tell the truth
little girl.
Like it was his business. He
reached for his Marlboros, took
one, offered the pack. My lip
curled. He lit up anyway.
Quit once. Your mother bitched
me out of the habit.
I watched him inhale, blow
smoke signals. Exhale. Beyond
the ochre haze, city turned to
suburbs. Not pretty suburbs.
She was the bitch queen. I started
again soon as I moved out.
The Geo limped into
a weather-chewed parking
lot. I escaped the front
seat. Aired out in blistering heat.
Here we are. Home sweet home.
What’s mine is yours.
I’d made an awful mistake.
Daddy wasn’t the Prince of
Albuquerque. He was the King of Cliché.
You Call This a Castle?
Not My Type
No shirt
hot bod.
His, that is.
So why did
/break out in
a sweat?
No shoes
barefoot,
bare chest, with
a bare, baby face
to make the
angels sing.
Nothing
but ragged
cut-offs,
hugging a
tawny six pack,
and a smile.
No pin-up
pretty boy
could touch,
a smile that
zapped every cell.
He was definitely
not my type.
At Least I Had Something
to think about
besides my dad’s
less than palatial
apartment.
If he qualified
as royalty in this true
blue collar
kingdom,
I had zero desire
to see how the
working class
lived.
Dad Had to Go to Work
Work?
You’ve heard a work.
You couldn’t take
one day off?
You don’t know my boss.
Does he know
about me?
She knows you’re here.
Your daughter
comes to visit …
She does’nt know.
Know what?
That you’re my daughter.
Who am I, then?
A long lost relative.
He Worked in a Bowling Alley
Under the table,
so I don’t screw
up my disability.
Unsticking stuck
balls, fitting stinky
shoes, collecting
cash from the crop
du jour of the
great unwashed.
No one there’s
gonna tell. They
got their own secrets,
No worries about
bubblegum, athlete’s
foot, or the current
flu, passed bill to
bill, ball to ball,
shoe to shoe.
Like who’s making
out in the back room,
who’s striking out.
Geo unlocked
in a parking lot
where the color of
your jacket might
mean your life, wrong
night, wrong time.
It’s not the best
neighborhood, but
hey, come along.
I Opted Out
Long trip,
long day,
no thanks,
I’ll stay.
Okay.
Not Quite Silent
The empty boxes
Dad imagined
rooms.
Glurp … glurp … glurp
Hot drops into
deep kitchen
stainless.
Plunk.....plunk
Cool drips on
chipped bathroom
porcelain.
Chh-ka-chh
Sleepy branches
scratching bedroom
glass.
You crazy sonofabitch!
Neighbors through
thin plaster
walls.
The Screaming
Of Course, When I Was Little
I didn’t understand the
terminology of words like
infidelity.
Nor the implications
of my father’s sundry
addictions.
I only knew my wicked
mother took us far away,
kept us far apart.
Time passed, with little
word from Dad.
But, having experienced
Mom’s growing
frustration
at a stalled career and
family life’s daily
limitations
I put the blame squarely
on her. As for Dad,
I could have forgiven
him pretty much anything,
even his silence.
As long as I could forever
stay his little princess.
Okay, Over the Last Few Years
I may have gained a little perspective.
Mom struggled to raise two kids
on her own, at least until Scott
blundered into her life.
Jake was a late addition,
one the workout queen accepted
and loved despite killer stretch marks
and sure-to-sag-even-more boobs.
As for Dad, well, truth be told, his love
of drugs surpassed his love of family.
And when we were small, he just
happened to install cable TV,
giving him every opportunity
to experience the wild side of
bored, stay-at-home housewives,
eager for entertainment.
So it was, perhaps, ironic
that I discovered …
Dad Hadn’t Paid His Cable Bill
Three fuzzy channels
hissed and spit
a rerun of Friends,
extra-inning baseball, and
soap opera, en español.
I should have gone
straight to bed,
counted cracks
in the ceiling.
Instead, I went outside.
Cigarette smoke,
toxic curls in the
stairwell at my feet,
soft voices rising,
pheromone fog.
He was still there,
my silver knight,
flirting with some
fallen Guinivere in
short shorts and a cropped T.
I kept to the shadows,
observing the game
I hadn’t dared play,
absorbing the rules
with adhesive eyes.
The Rules
Uncomplicated, this
child’s game.
He says, Please?
She says, “Can’t.”
He, Why not?
She, “I’m not that kind of a girl.”
Then she spends twenty
minutes disproving
the theory, until
Mother calls, Hija?
She answers, “Mama?”
Mother, Come inside now.
She, “Be right there.”
It’s a lie. He pulls her
into his lap, silencing
meager protests with
full-lipped kisses.
He insists, Now.
She resists, “Later.”
He, Promise?
She, “Cross my heart.”
She Went Inside
I wasn’t sure if I felt more
disappointed or relieved.
Guinivere really had him.
So I shouldn’t want him. Should I?
I didn’t really want his perfect
pout, reaching hungrily
for my own timid lips.
I didn’t have a clue how to kiss.
Didn’t really want his hands,
investigating the hills
and valleys of my landscape.
I’d never been touched by a boy.
Didn’t want his face,
burrowing into my hair,
finding my neck. Tasting.
I’d never even said hello to such a complete stranger.
Didn’t want his smoke,
making me gag, making me
want to taste something so gross.
It was all so confusing, I mean,
I didn’t want a boyfriend,
no summer fling to make
me want to stay in this alien place.
Anyway,
I’d be speechless if he asked.
I Must Have Moaned
Hey.
He popped above the
stairs suddenly, a
wild-eyed Jack-in-the-box,
anticipating the
pay-off crank.
Oh, it’s you.
Like he knew me,
knew I had no life,
suspected I’d come
spying, set up the game
just for me.
I waited for you.
I coughed a hello,
stamping sweaty
palm prints into not-so
wrinkle-free jeans.
Could he read minds?
I know what you’re thinking.
Smile. Nod. Say
something witty
before he finds
out what an incredible
geek you are.
That you’re too good for me.
He topped the staircase,
slinked closer, golden
eyes narrowing, reached
out and touched the flush
of my cheek.
But you’re wrong.
The Wind Blew Up
My mind raced.
My heart joined in.
I shook my head,
mute as snowfall.
What, then? Why do you look
at me that way?
What could I say?
That some stranger
inside me couldn’t
keep her eyes off him?
I know you can talk. I heard
you before.
I felt her stir, like a
breeze blowing up off
the evening sea. My
wind had awakened.
You know, you’re kind of cute,
in a stuck-up sort of way.
She pumped through
my veins in hot, red
bursts. Blood pressure
rose in my face, blush.
You here for the summer? What’s
your name?
Her tongue curled
easily behind my teeth,
and her words melted
between my lips.
“My friends call me Bree.”
Bree? Who Was She?
And where did that name
come from? I’d probably
heard it once in my life!