Lorna Field

   There has never been a more urgent feeling, in the history of human feelings, that is even quite nearly as urgent as having a full bladder on a bed of dry sheets illuminated by the spectrum of the solar system printed right into where one has just awoken from a child’s nightmare. Edgar Alan Paulus—known then only as “Junior,” after his father—was seven years old when he first experienced this great burden of urgency as his eyes flew open into the darkness, dilating desperately to determine the most efficient route to his grandparents’ bathroom down the hall from where he had been sleeping. Planet by planet, Junior peeled the sheets and blankets from his eager body and scooted to the edge of his little bed as his eyes attempted to make shapes in the darkness.

   As his toes touched the cold floor, shivers crept up the boy’s spine, startling it into a straight line. He sprinted across the cold wooden floor and towards the bathroom, as if he was still trying to escape the cryptic and bizarre images of his dreams. As the boy struggled to recall the contents of his nightmares—oddly fascinated at his own terror—he could only recollect random images like flashes of light, but he knew nothing of what he did or what happened to him in these dreams. Even at the age of seven, Junior found himself amazed that it had only just occurred moments ago and yet he had already forgotten everything but the sight of a man’s downcast face shadowed by wrinkles that flowed over his skin like thick waves. 

I’ve dug myself ten feet deep
in these parables, these confessions,
that bind me in my pursuit of escape.
Written on the solitude
of ruled paper the length
of my fore-finger and palm,
there are no secrets here.
My feet are soaking wet
as I trek through the shadows
of this muck of ideas
dampened by the sophisticated
methods in which you manipulate
the tones in your throat
and bring me salvation until
I’m wading in the ambiguity
of this angry, juvenile poetry,
yet again, choking for breath
along the current.
Every face reflected in these waves
is the tile of a mosaic
conceived on the murmur
of the same exhausted stories
re-told until we are bound to each
by the nostalgia of our midnights;
A pacifying hum of conversation
only exhaled to hang
in the distance between us,
leaving us tethered to each other
as long as the language
reads from the pink of our lips
or the vacancy of our minds
or the lines of this paper.
We’ve become the surf,
and we’re crashing on the rocks, but
I will swim with these words
until my pen runs dry.

Seclusion between

construction signs

unbridled by

county lines and stop signs

and each exit

speaks a different language

that I ignore as I part

the darkness

with my headlights

like a hand between its thighs

it is opening up to me

The only thing I hate more than making small talk with uninteresting people is that word—‘memoirs.’ it hurts my teeth to even think it, and even thinking it I pronounce it with a snooty accent. Memwahs.

All I wanted was a cigarette and it had been such a long night and I was sick of the men hitting on me or watching the wheel slide between my hands or asking if my hair color was natural, and the women were even worse because they’d look at me like I was a spot on their blouse or a little bug or they wouldn’t notice me at all and the only thing worse than being noticed is not being noticed. So at first, it was just nice to feel something else.

I picked him up at the music festival, which is exactly where I wanted to be so I thought this time would be different, we’d have something in common, something to talk about. I asked him what bands he’d seen, he named a few that sounded vaguely familiar. I told him I’d written an article about the show, and that’s when it happened.

“oh, you know, I’m a freelance writer myself,” he said. That was another thing I hated. ‘freelance writer.’

“yeah, I’ve been working on a collection of memoirs,” he went on. God, I needed a cigarette. Something. Seclusion in a cloud of smoke.

“…you know, from older people. Just getting their stories in one place.” I wanted to drive us into a lamp post, into oncoming traffic, anything to get him to stop telling me about his stupid freelance memwahs. Why was I even pretending to care? I nodded as politely as I could, just as I would whenever someone would slip me his number, or ask me up to his room, or tell me to meet him at the bar later.

“I have an interview with PETA soon,” he told me. “to write for them. Not sure I want to become a vegetarian or a vegan but I think I would have to.”

“is that in the job description?” I asked sarcastically. Sarcasm was my only escape at this point.

                  There was a long, silent break in our conversation before I finally broke it.

“I mean, I’m all for animal rights and everything, and I understand the brutality in mass-producing meat through slaughter houses, but there’s always farmers’ markets…” it was becoming evident that I knew more on the subject than the future PETA employee.

“I mean, I guess,” he finally responded. Good god, this is a long drive, I thought. I thought about everything I’d read about how cows are killed before their meat is harvested. I then thought about how many smaller animals, like rabbits, are slaughtered by farm equipment when grains are reaped from the fields. These animals would not have envied me in that moment.

                                             We barely spoke after that.

After what felt like a seven hour layover in Hell I pulled up to the lobby of the hotel and politely said goodnight to my passenger. He gave me a reasonably confused half-smile, collected himself, and opened his door to get out. He stopped short and looked back up at me.

“hey someone left their cigarettes back here,” he said and handed me an unopened back of Camels. I took them from him, and he got out of the car, nearly slamming the door on his way out.

I looked at the fresh pack of cigarettes for a moment before driving off. Not a total waste, I thought.

In the morning, a tempest of the season,

       Snow captured the streets;

White rooftops laid like tiles over the valley,

Creating the contour of the sleeping city,

       A still moment beneath a silver sky.

An orchestra, formed between the palpitations of a sky

that rose and fell like a sleeping chest,

       Stirred the city into somnambulant activity.

In frozen air

       The weather looked over the place,

       Like a doting parent,

Peeling each ragdoll limb from the sheets

With invisible strings while lazy lids refused

To unveil the dreamy dilations

They had nurtured and warmed

Throughout the night.

     Like eggs in a nursery,

     The people began to hatch.

     I can see

His feet jiggling

Through the crack

Between the door and

The frame, the door left ajar.

He is speaking

Loudly on the phone

And his feet

Are jiggling.

     I want very badly

     To get up

And shut the door

So it will be

Quiet again.

     I’m nervous

That shutting him out

Would offend him, so I

Stay seated and

Say nothing.

His voice absorbs me and

I am saturated in it.

My thoughts become spoiled.

     I am being oppressed

     By belligerent banality;

I can feel pressure from within my skull

As if I am reaching a different altitude.

I feel myself becoming lighter,

Propelled upwards by my own

Inanities and unchained thoughts.

I cannot think, just listen.

     Suddenly,

I can’t see his feet anymore

Through the crack

Between the door and

The frame, the door still ajar,

And I think he is walking away.

I listen until I can’t hear anything

Then I get up and shut the door.