Fiction Friday: Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

With any other youth group,
the idea of dating a lot of different people
seemed like cheating,
but in Mormonism,
until one felt ready to marry,
it was better not to get fixated on any one person,
for that might lead to falling in love
& that just might lead to sin.

Tony had been willing to give up his reputation for Kath
but not Elder Roberts.
Tony had sealed his fate with his beloved by impregnating her,
whereas Elder Roberts had denied himself
by denying me.

It was a jubilee of sorts—
the tinkling of our fluted stems
signaling the beginning of the New Year
& the best years of our lives to come.

A cool gust, a warm breeze,
stirred me from my slumber
like a ghostly lover beckoning me.
I just stood back and watched him,
enjoying him,
& when he spoke to the sky,
it was then that I realized that he was speaking to the God
I thought he didn’t believe in.

I would never know if David lied to himself,
so he could lie to Mother,
but they would have a year before the temple
for her to fall in love with him
without all the trappings of Mormonism,
before she would expect him to take her to the temple
& promise things that he would never do,
not even for her,
even if she were me.

The Annexation of Angela

Chimerism

You knew me before I was born,
and the other me,
before we became one.

At the basic level,
I was two,
becoming the stronger of them,
absorbing the other like a sponge.

I’ve two fathers,
much like Christ,
though I know neither of them,
and they know not of me.

I look in the glass that looks back at me,
wondering who the other one was,
but I’m just a chimera,
a breathing being like few others—
an oddity.

I’m neither a myth nor a monster
with the head of a lion.
I have not the body of a goat,
nor have I a serpent’s tail.
I am not the devil;
the devil is one,
even as I am two.

I am not a horror of the imagination,
but am the product of two separate nights
shared by three.
An unholy triad, some say,
rather than a holy trinity.

Did we hold hands,
and I,
wanting to survive,
draw you into me,
having not yet taken my first breath?

Did I not let you go,
but held tight so that I might live?

Forgive me,
for I knew not what I was doing.
I did not steal your identity,
I simply split mine.

And then I was born.

Published in The Kilgore Review (2016), having placed second in the poetry category of Pensacola State College’s annual Walter F. Spara Writing Contest.

Fiction Friday: Novelines from the Book

mormoni

Mother and David were like eloping teenagers, and I, their unmarried, childless friend, who was forced to witness a choice that I knew would end in doom.   

A baby grand sat in the corner of the room; on top, sat a picture of Jesus.  For some reason, it made me think of a picture of a woman’s late husband. “I guess He’s the witness,” Caitlin whispered, and I held back a laugh.

The preacher’s daughter sat on the witness chair, telling Mother, “I hope I can have more than one husband, too, but not at the same time, of course—not like the Mormons.”

“David, when I think of you, I think of the guardian angel who came to us all those years before, bearing good tidings of great joy.”  I did not see Pastor Taylor’s right eyebrow almost fly off his forehead, nor the shock on Mrs. Taylor’s face, nor the curiosity on Carolyn’s.

My vow was simple.  “You’ve not only been my father but my educator, edifier, and friend.” I refrained from saying savior.

I had reached back inside myself, back to that girl I used to be, whose dream it had been to see the two people she loved most in the world married.  Through her eyes, I could see this as she would have—as an occasion for celebration. How happy I would have been a year ago, before I ever knew the Church, yet it was because of the Church that we were here at all.  

That night, David told Mother he would love her for eternity, but only I knew that he meant that his love for hernot their marriagewould abide forever.  I could not portend what had been in his heart at that exact moment, but I knew who David was at his core.  That was how I knew their marriage would last for time only, and a fleeting time at that. 

Pastor Taylor spoke a few words, Mrs. Taylor stone-faced, Carolyn starry-eyed, and I, pledging my allegiance to David Dalton under the banner of heaven.

Fiction Friday: Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

With my hair in a French roll,
Caitlin’s in a challah braid,
& Mother looking good enough to eat,
we could open a pastry shop—
with David as the butter
that made us all better.

The pastor’s house looked a mansion in God’s heaven—
this house of seven gables from which the seven fruits of the spirit
seemed to guard & fight against the seven devils
that sought to penetrate this fortress—
this home that looked even more imposing than it had in its spread  
in Southern Belles & Whistles magazine.  
The Taylors were the creamy pillars of the community,
spreading the Word of God like butter
on the white bread that fortified “Our Town.”

They had written their own vows,
going beyond what was necessary—
just like the Mormons with their
“for time and all eternity”
that one-upped what all other religions
offered in regards to marriage.

Though he had allowed himself
to walk into the waters of baptism,
he would never walk
through the doors of the temple. 
She could have him in this life,
if only I could have him in the next.

For David’s joy alone,
I gave them my blessing. 
For him,
I would do every good
& evil
under the sun
but never in the name of the Son.
 

Fiction Friday: Micropoetry from the Book

mormoni

He had been there to see him leave the earth
but not to see him put into it,
& I was angry at the world
that had not magically changed
because someone was no longer in it.

In burying my father,
she had buried, it seemed,
the last facet of her old self.
She had gone from a grieving widow
to a blushing bride-to-be
in the matter of an hour,
& no one from the LDS Church knew
of the quickening of Patrick Nolan’s soul
to the Spirit World.

The first ceremony would be a civil one,
followed by a spiritual one.
Just like everything else,
the marriages of other churches
were the preparatory marriages,
& Mormon marriages,
the sealant.

Because my father had died,
my mother would live as she pleased,
but hadn’t she always?
For if one had already enjoyed the intimacy of marriage
without taking the vows,
then how special could making it legal be?
For what was marriage but a representation
of monotheism—
of being subject to one entity
till the death of oneself or the death
of the other.

I was a hollow vessel
where Mother’s empty words echoed,
taking no delight in what I had dreamt of
for as long as my eyes had beheld
the glory of David Dalton.

Fiction Friday: Novelines from the Book

mormoni

According to Mother, “The terrestrial kingdom will be everything he always believed Heaven would be.”

I looked up to my mother then, finally understanding the depth of her suffering.  She had bled from every pore, for I knew she’d believed that to let Patrick die after a suicide attempt would send his soul straight down to Hell—an unpardonable sin in the Catholic Church—and she would feel responsible, but how could any mortal be responsible for the destination of an individual’s soul, for wouldn’t that put them on par with God?

Mother would be married to David for time and all eternity; I would be sealed to them, but I found myself wishing there was a degree of lightness, a degree of separation, that would separate Mother from David.   For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

I looked back only to see Caitlin weeping by Patrick’s bedside, Mother standing there, stoic.  I knew it was just his shell in there now, and yet, it still haunted me that Mother had chosen to end his life out of convenience—just so she could marry David in the temple.  Her belief in the Catholic Church had kept him alive as surely as her belief in the Mormon Church had ended his life. The temple was tainted to me now, for my father’s blood flowed from its doors.

The end of my father’s life was the beginning of my mother’s.  I had loved her & loathed him, but now I was beginning to love him & loathe her.  Could I love someone who was dead, or did I love only his memory?  Or was it even less than that, considering I had little to no memory of him?  The man in the bed had been a stranger.  I had smelt him & remembered nothing.  I pined not for him so much but for the potential that had once been him.  He had loved me, and that was enough for me to love him back.

Yessir and No Ma’am: Livin’ the Dream in Lower Alabama

Pensacola may not be in the heart of Dixie,
but it is in the aorta (if the aorta was upside down).

Our cuisine is macaroni and cheese any way we can get it
and grits 5-ways to Saturday & 6-ways to Sunday.
If you put sugar in your grits, You ain’t right.
We love us some Cajun boiled peanuts in brown paper bags
and nanner puddin’ in sheet pans at every potluck.
Everything else, we fry and wash down with sweet iced tea.

Gardenias sway like flouncy-skirted temptresses,
releasing their fragrance like a pheromone;
the azaleas pop out without care,
for water is in the air;
privet clusters and crepe myrtles take flight like dandelion seeds.

The iconic Graffiti Bridge on 17th Avenue
is our landmark for free expression.
Facebook pages are dedicated to it.
Everything from breasts to Bush for President
has been painted on there for a day.

There’s the 1000-plus member Baptist church,
pastored by the fire-headed preacher with the big teeth
an Elmer Gantry-type personality who’s found his Zenith, Missouri.
If you’re in need,
they will give you expired food for free.

“Bless your hearts, you’re going to hell,”
one of the lady parishioners tells a pair of Mormon missionaries
the ones that ride around town on bicycles,
marked as Elder This and Elder That,
even though they are young.
They don’t know what to think;
they don’t talk about Jesus this much in Utah,
and church here for many is just a Sunday thing,
’cause they already be saved.

Everyone is either saved or damned;
there’s always somebody praying for you,
passing the buck to God.
If you say you’re spiritual but not religious,
well, you’re just trying to have your red velvet cake and eat it, too.

Jesus was a Socialist, I hear from the liberals
who don’t believe in Him anyway
at least the One with all the rules
while those wearing Confederate flag tees say,
“God only helps those who help themselves.”

At one street corner, a well-dressed group is waving their Bibles and yelling;
at the other, a homeless man is holding up a cardboard sign that says,
Anything helps, God bless.
The homeless are like the trees that sway in the gulf breeze;
they have become part of the landscape
that’s made up of shuttered businesses and brand-spankin’ new homes
built next door to shitholes.

Cars wallpapered in Bible quotes drive by churches with signs that say,
“Do Jesus a favor by putting yourself in His,”
“God’s will can be your way,”
and “An apple one day turned God away.”

Everyone is pro-choice here
it’s just a matter of whom they want to save:
the unborn or the incarcerated?
Which does Jesus save?
The sinful or sinless?
Don’t you have to be born to be in sin?

There is no separation of Church and State here;
politics and religion are one and the same.

Here, God is omnipresent.

Hot spells compete with cold snaps;
it’s usually boiling hot or freezing cold,
with just a few days of spring scattered
like parsley on a plate of glorified scrambled eggs.

When a hurricane knocks the power out,
we can be found taking several cool showers a day,
the damp towels hardly drying in the humidity,
leaving them smelling mildewy
as if they’d been left in the washer too long.
During those times, our family would be fine dining
in the Sacred Heart Hospital cafeteria.
We want hot food in a cold room
not the other way around.
There were no squirrels for a long time after Ivan
they got blown away.

Every week, there’s a hit-and-run;
cyclists and pedestrians:
be green and poor at your own risk.
Every day, there’s roadkill baking on the asphalt
probably enough critters to fill all the potholes in town.

In the T.T. Wentworth Museum,
a petrified cat is on display.

Beach-themed crap is everywhere;
the weather reports are endless.

Its called the Deep South because its like a pit
that you fall in and can’t scrabble your way out of
not because you’re broken,
but rather, because you’re broken in
and baked into the bread pudding that is the Redneck Riviera.
The South is still proud of its Southerness
even for using don’t when it should be doesn’t.

For grammarians,
it frustrates,
but for storytellers,
it captivates.