Small Square Bites

Wolf Creek ski run opened today, earliest reported snowfall in the mountains in October. I vacation with five women and outside our rooms the steam off the Mother Pool spills a thick silvery liquid like mercury. Nimbostratus hover like crumpled painter’s drop cloth stained periwinkle and peach above the cold river periphery and quieted lights on the Mexican restaurant across the street where the bartender hasn’t yet begun pouring tequila or beer.

Deanna says there’s a Patsy Cline tribute in town tonight to benefit an art museum named after a local watercolorist and it’s all happening on Fritz and Mabel Place. I chuckle at the street name, deciding whether to take a fourth trip down to the hot springs or simply nap.

Then my daughter telephones sobbing of the inevitable break-up from her first love, and my husband claims on another line that he can navigate this as I am too far away to be able to do anything, really. Still I assure her this experience will eventually unfurl kindly and without blemish.

While in the temporary living room, I silently nod to my girlfriends who tiptoe in and out - yes, bring me a whiskey neat, please, and I’m selfishly wondering about the directions to the country western concert as my heartbroken little one whimpers, voice cracking like a broken wire I’ve just stepped over and the metal trails, snagged.

I slowly recline in this getaway corner on the border of sulfur smells and lithium float, between indecision and reality's home, here where we will rest until tomorrow. The only recipe to free any of us from disappointments, the 100 degree tubs named Overlook, Paradise, Clouds in my Coffee, and Lobster Pot. As my drink arrives, I nod gratitude to my friend and continue to listen patiently to my daughter, as I take the crystalized ginger offered in small square bites.

in reminiscence of another October- for Delaney and the Yeehahs

Comments

Grit and Sunlight

What springs up: insistence in this persistent mother of mine (still breathing) Even busy ashes from a rescued urn float up reconstituted as morning dew She unfolds her tendril arms from shadow (shaking just five days ago as if in temporary surrender) (that moment when I am less certain of her longevity) this woman ever present (anyone’s mother) aging when even the most spindly clover of her fragile skin captures the sunrise light like anticipation’s shower blood underneath all humming bird or spores from her heart and in her mouth inhale (frightened) breath exhale grit inhale (certain) breath exhale grit

Open Mic, Cafe Babar

I remember arriving, not the prettiest but appealing to certain bards in the back room, entering through the Castro Valley corner door, walking the postage stamp sized Cinzano bar curated by a man from Detroit who named his establishment after a certain French elephant in a children’s book I arrive with budding consciousness around politically correct solidarity for disheveled neighbors, entering the cigarette lit night rising to tin siding ceiling to floor thumping insistence Bruce and Joie and David and Laura and John, their ash and sweat accumulating as I waited patiently for my place on the crumpled sign-up sheet Today, three decades later, I sit in a Santa Fe gallery named simply Here, and a poet reads to us of roadrunners and a bear and a continuation of the call for preservation of our environment There is an otherworldly hum outside the window of leaded glass The owner sidles up behind me and pushes the frame down to contain what we came to hear I have applied lipstick

A Matter of Travel

Solstice, 2019, for Tracy 1. And cross borders we do often without leaving our houses. Our bodies dream of gardens. Our hands flutter as feeling exits as we press hard against the solid entry door. I type the names of cities. My search reveals rivers, airfares, temperatures in July. 2. Seeking sleep, I am transported through music piped into tiny earbuds. While on an island my father has two seizures in the night. His ten children fly to one another with cautionary fright, typing. Time zones vary from each cell phone exclamation. Two sisters, you and I, raise questions that barely touch down for others but I witness you. 3. By morning we’re assured was merely fainting, and I reconsider change of plans. No emergency to rush to his quiet side. I walk no farther instead to this table for eggs, an English muffin. Arrive inside my individual conclusions. Concern that happiness, once again, is quickly stymied.

As Mourning Doves Persist

Search This Blog