I was hoping to hold onto it a little
longer. Guess that means I might
as well head home. So looking
forward to mass this afternoon.”
You used to be such a good, little
Catholic. What happened?
“My parental role models. All
that confessing going on
and not enough genuine apology.
I still like the incense, though.”
We arrange for me to pick her up
in a couple of days. Say a Hail Mary
for me. I could use some forgiveness.
WHEN I WAS A KID
Christmas Eve mass was critical.
My obligation was fulfilled. I had
been forgiven. Baby Jesus was almost
born, and he was happy with me
(okay, slight logic lapse, but whatever),
and that meant Santa was definitely
on his way. That last part I deciphered
all by myself. We always had a nice
dinner out, so Mom wouldn’t have
to cook or wash dishes. Enough of
that to come the next day. Then it
was overdosing on sappy holiday
flicks. My parents let Troy and me
stay up really late, hoping we’d sleep
in a little. As if. He and I were up
before dawn broke. We’d sneak into
the living room to count all the gifts
Santa had delivered overnight.
It was magical. Over the years, little
by little, the magic has faded away.
The only person up early today is me,
and only because my phone rings
a little after five a.m. It’s five thirty
p.m. in Afghanistan. “Hey, baby.”
Merry Christmas, lady. Sorry
to get you up at the crack of dawn.
Everyone wants the phone. I can’t
talk more than a second. But I want
you to know I love you. Miss you.
I’m in need of some serious Ash time.
JUST LIKE SANTA
Up the chimney, he’s gone.
I lie in bed, visions of Afghanistan
dancing in my head. I expect to find
an e-mail from Cole later, with a little
more information. Probably what
they’re having for dinner. Some
prank some grunt pulled on another.
Possibly a hint of what he’s been
doing during those long stretches
when I hear not a word from him.
The usual minutiae on this less-
than-ordinary day. That’s what
it should be, anyway. I’ll settle for
mellow. A little conversation would
be nice. Something to melt the silent
ice between Mom and Dad. Troy
and Gretchen and I have done our
best, but so far, no dice. I get out
of bed, snuggle into a robe. Maybe
Santa showed up last night after
all, with a tree and trimmings and
lots of presents. I extract the ones
I brought from my suitcase, tiptoe
down the hall to the living room.
See no sign that Santa was there.
I turn up the heat, root through
the entertainment center shelves,
locate a CD of Christmas music.
Old rock ’n’ rollers, singing carols.
If no one else wants Christmas, I do.
It’s only a little after six, but I put
on the music, turn it up loud enough
so I can hear it in the kitchen. Go
start coffee. Glance in the fridge.
Looks like prime rib for dinner.
Perfect. There are lots of apples
in the drawer. I’m thinking pie.
I start peeling and slicing and by
the time the rich, bitter scent of
Sumatran perfumes the air, Mom
comes padding into the room.
Merry Christmas, Ashley. She hands
me a small box, wrapped in gold
foil. Inside it are two filigreed rings.
Mom and Dad’s wedding rings.
I thought you’d appreciate them
the most. Hope Cole likes them.
Her long, deep hug makes me cry.
Rewind
AFTER DALE’S FUNERAL
Cole flew back to San Diego with me.
The whole way, I wondered if his mom
had mentioned the thing with Lara,
but if she had, he didn’t bring it up.
I decided confession was every bit
as useless as my confronting Lara
had been. Rochelle was right. Love
without trust is nothing more than
infatuation. Pointless, considering
the loosely woven fabric of my relationship
with Cole. It’s impossible to weave
the threads tighter when you spend
so much time apart. We felt like gauze.
I had to have faith that the filaments
were strong. Easier, when you’re
sitting close, holding hands, making
plans for a future together. Easier,
when you’re laughing over a couple
of beers, fish and chips, and a shared
piece of chocolate decadence cake.
Much easier when, buzzed and needy,
you tumble into a familiar bed together.
WE SLEPT TOGETHER
At Rochelle’s, but not comfortably.
It felt strange, sharing a bed there,
like maybe the walls possessed ears.
The sex was muted. Low-volume
fumbling. Satisfaction-free. At least,
for me. By the time we got back to
my apartment, I was starving for more.
And, doubtless because of my recent
run-in with Lara, I felt like I had something
to prove. To Cole. And to myself. I was sick
of playing passive. I wanted to try on
the power role, and so I didn’t crawl
to one side of the bed and wait for Cole
to make love to me. I pushed him
backward into the bedroom. Dropped
to my knees in front of him, unbuckled
his belt, unzipped his jeans, slid them
off. Watched him stir, helped him grow
completely hard with my hands. Mouth.
I brought him right to the brink. Stopped.
Stood. Took off my own clothes. “Lie
down. And don’t move.” Oh yes, I liked
taking control. I kissed my way up on
top of him. Licked his face. His neck.
His chest. I straddled him, pushed
him in, rocking hard. Harder. Not enough,
with him still inside me, I turned around,
faced the other way, and that angle
created exquisite pressure. I made it
last as long as I could. We both howled.
SATIATED
I slept backed up into the curve
of his body, luxuriating in his warmth,
the tautness of his muscles.
He could, I thought, snap me in half.
Instead, his marble arms held
me carefully. Gently. Like you hold
a baby. He fell asleep first.
The rhythm of his breathing told
me his dreams were effortless,
devoid of memory. He wandered
fantasy. I hoped to find him
when I, too, slipped off the edge,
into the netherworld of sleep.
Eventually, I dozed. But somewhere
in the watery depths of night,
I was pulled from my own dreams
into Cole’s arms. And when
he made love to
me, I couldn’t fight
passivity. His turn to take control.
But even in the power role, he confessed
his love for me, his soft repetition
a lullaby carrying me back into sleep.
THE NEXT DAY
We woke to this incredible news,
announced the night before, while
we tangled ourselves together.
OSAMA BIN LADEN, THE MOST HUNTED
MAN IN THE WORLD, HAS BEEN KILLED
IN A FIREFIGHT WITH UNITED STATES
FORCES IN PAKISTAN. BIN LADEN
RESISTED AND WAS SHOT IN THE HEAD.
I thought Cole would celebrate,
stand up and salute the Commander
in Chief, or at least his special forces
brethren. Instead, he was almost gloomy.
Fuck, and I had to miss all the fun?
Goddamn Obama gives the mission
to the fucking SEALS, after we laid
all the groundwork? That’s just not right.
I knew better than to argue.
And then came details, some
of them pretty damn dirty.
IN THIRTY-EIGHT MINUTES, FIVE PEOPLE
WERE KILLED—BIN LADEN AND SON,
HIS COURIER, COURIER’S BROTHER
AND COURIER’S BROTHER’S WIFE.
ONLY ONE WAS ARMED, BUT THE OTHERS
HAD GUNS NEARBY. ALSO IN THE HOUSE
WERE SEVERAL OF BIN LADEN’S WIVES
AND CHILDREN. HIS TWELVE-YEAR-OLD
DAUGHTER WAS HIT IN THE FOOT WITH
A PIECE OF FLYING DEBRIS. ALL CHILDREN
AND WOMEN WERE HANDCUFFED AND
REMOVED FORCIBLY FROM THE COMPOUND.
COLE’S REACTION
To that was also unexpected.
They should have lined them all
right up against a wall and strafed
’em. Period. See y’all in hell.
“You can’t mean that, Cole.”
Women, children, fucking Qaeda
dogs, even. All they’re going to do
is breed more fucking terrorists.
“You’re telling me you could kill
kids just because they were al Qaeda?”
In a heartbeat. Those kids are all
brainwashed. They’d kill you, too,
and you can take that to the bank.
I couldn’t believe he felt that way.
A sudden chill ran through me.
I thought back to a day right after
we met. We were at the museum.
I remembered how Cole had watched
the children running in the hallways
with nothing but affection in his eyes.
His heart had been tender then.
I thought that would last forever.
But there was something new under
Cole’s skin. Some dark vapor. War,
they say, leaves no soldier unchanged.
Could it shred every hint of compassion?
THE COLOR OF PASSION
Some say passion
colors
up like autumn, maple
weaving dreams into crimson
veils, and shedding them one
by one in seductive
dance,
to stand naked and frail
in the court of the woodland king.
Others see passion as brittle
winter silver,
whispers
buried within a thick hush
of white, promises
held captive by bonds
of prismatic light,
awaiting the lash’s redemption.
You find passion
in springtime
pastel,
a riotous fusion
of blossom and blade,
joining wet in placid rain, scenting
garden and glade with the
pale
perfume of goddesses.
I think of passion as brown
summer skin, mine wrapped
in yours, on a beige strand of beach,
temperate souls, grown feverish
beneath cool amber
pearls of moonlight.
Cole Gleason
Present
JUMPING SHIP
Out of social work and into creative
writing is fairly straightforward. It’s
too late to apply for the spring semester,
so I focus on next fall. I need to complete
the application, pull together transcripts,
writing samples, and three letters of
recommendation, all by February first.
Since I need good grades, I have
to either withdraw from my current classes
or work diligently enough to maintain
my GPA. I choose the latter course
of action. No use wasting the money
that’s already been spent on my behalf.
And who knows? Maybe studying social
work will make my writing deeper.
Dad about blew a gasket when I told
him my plan. Who needs an MFA
in creative writing, for God’s sake?
Anyway, if you’re getting married,
graduate school is a waste of time.
You don’t even know where you’ll
be living next year. Why don’t you
just withdraw and think about
playing house for a while?
That pissed me off, but I managed
to stay calm. “Married or not, I want
to make my own way, Dad. Cole
will probably ask for assignment
at Pendleton, so SDSU will suit me
fine.” I don’t know if that’s true, but
I hope we can work it out. I do not
want to live in Wyoming. Not enough
ocean. I am sticking to my grand plan,
working on the application, when
the phone rings. It’s Darian. Hey,
Ash. I got some bad news today
and I thought you should know.
Remember Celine? Her husband,
Luke, was killed a couple of days
ago. He was training ANA soldiers on
the Pakistan border. Took a bullet.
“No.” It’s not enough. Denial
can’t change it. But what else
is there to say? Jesus, it’s so not fair.
I conjure a familiar image of a flag-
shrouded coffin, embracing some
anonymous soldier. Heartbreaking,
yes, but much, much more so when
the remains inside are recognized.
I NEVER MET LUKE
But I feel like I know him. Celine
was clear in her description of him.
I could have picked him out of a crowd.
And her love for him imbued her spirit.
It was like he was there with her.
Will that stay the same? Or has it died
with him? It’s so close to home.
And yet, it could be closer. It could be
lounging on my doorstep, even now.
I wouldn’t know until I tripped over
it. Would I break my neck? Could
I get over it? Will Celine? I realize
Darian is still on the line. “Sorry.
I’m just so damn sorry.” Wait.
“Hey. How’s Spence doing?” It’s been
over a week since his skin-graft surgery.
Better than expected. I mean,
he’s still confined to bed and wrapped
up pretty tightly. But his doctors
are pleased with his progress. They gave
him good pills, so he’s not in much pain.
“That’s great to hear. Give him my love,
okay? Oh, and let me know when
you can get away for a few hours so
you can take me to that boutique.
I do want something unique. Maybe red.
That would go well with purple, right?”
THE JOKE
Falls flat on a field of sadness,
sinks into the well-cultivated soil.
Dar and I return to the minutiae
that swallows up so many days.
I check them off the calendar, one
after another. Amazing how fast
weeks can disappear into months,
into years. School. Fieldwork.
Spare hours at the VA Hospital.
Each day can only hold so much.
My MFA application goes in on time,
bolstered by recommendations from
one third-year and one senior-year
teacher plus, of course, Jonah.
His class is the brightest slot on
my schedule. I love learning poetry.
Love writing poetry. Love watching
Jonah teach poetry. I asked him to
help me choose the necessary writing
samples. He picked some favorites,
and some I had forgotten about, including
a couple I wrote about the VA hospital.
ROUGH DAY AT THE VA
by Ashley Patterson
Fog unfolds
across a sea cliff silhouette, thin
linen over a sandstone cadaver,
and I think of Harry.
I didn’t know him, just a grizzled
face beneath a prim ball cap,
red, white and blue;
eyes like movie reels, rewinding
long term memory,
replaying jungle films,
one scene bleeding
into the next.
He was hardly noticeable,
in a far corner of the waiting
room, every chair filled.
On first glance, the men
were all the same.
Pepper-haired.
Ochre-fingered.
Ember-eyed.
But there were differences.
Cowboy boots. Nikes.
Bedroom slippers, one pair
complete with lions’ heads.
Flashy team jackets.
Tattered flannel shirts.
Imperfect postures.
Limbs, lost to sacrifice.
It was an island of wait,
fogged by skin in want
of soap, breath forgetful
of mint, patchwork bodies
incapable of propriety.
Hours, plunged into magazines
with faded dates, TV sets
that talked in whispers.
Tests followed tests,
gastro-this, thyroid-that,