The Diminutive Form of Sarah

Missing the days of summer activities coming to a close
in air-conditioned oases;
of falling asleep on cool sheets under ceiling fans
to Alexa’s thunderstorm sounds;
of resting in peace & dreams,
knowing that the Ring will BOLO for trespassers,
porch pirates,
& all manner of opportunists.
Missing the days of piping hot food
& ice-cold drinks;
of barbecue leftovers in the oven
& banana pudding ice cream,
frozen solid;
missing the days of being blasted 
by the cold dark from the freezer
& bathed by the cool light from the fridge.
Missing the days of glassware that sparkles
& freshly-laundered clothes.
Missing the days of entering a warm shower
& exiting a cool one.
Missing the days of switches instead of wicks,
the security of half-full gas tanks,
& streetlights that banish the creeping, creepy night-dark.
Missing the days of waking up recharged,
with devices fully charged.

Life seems to stop
when the power stops:
For some,
it does,
for others,
time simply passes more slowly:
broken up by weather updates
& neighborhood watch texts—
like x’s on calendars
or dots on a timeline.
Some serve others,
while others wait for service;
still others simply leave
because they can,
taking their face coverings with them
to avoid the Godless wrath of Covid—
an unseen force jockeying with this other unseen force
to be the star of the 24/7 news programming.
In the back of our minds,
we all are pacing
in Life’s Waiting Room—
that most frustrating place to which we all go,
discovered in the lab of Dr. Seuss’s imagination—
except this space is muggy-hot & pitch-black,
dispelled only by the whisper of a breeze
or the flicker of a candle,
& we are suddenly aware of all 
that goes on behind the scenes
to improve our quality of life.

Fiction Friday: Poetry from the Book

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In times of frost,
everything seemed rushed—
rushing to finish holiday shopping
& rushing to get in out of the cold
or home before darkness fell;
in times of fever,
everything moved as if in slow motion—
the trees swaying rather than shimmying,
the birds languid & low-key,
& the people,
even more so.
Perhaps this was because every holiday
had happened one year ago,
but in Green Haven,
summers bled
one into the other
like crayons that had been left
in the car too long.
Even after the town had turned its back on the sun,
the earth rolling over in its cosmic bed,
there was no respite from the heat.
Given the choice between being hot in stale air,
or hot in fresh air,
we’d chosen the latter.
We let the cold water cascade
over our heads & shoulders,
our hot bodies silhouetted in the frosted light
that shone through our bathroom windows,
drying with still-damp towels.
We had become as lethargic as wilted lettuce,
smelling not like bacon grease but of misery.

It was the season of the hurricane—
of parties on downtown patios
& beach condo balconies,
of people grilling their meat before it went bad,
to prevent the sourness & waste
that would pervade their homes,
for sometimes one had to consume something
a little too fast,
lest it be left out & seen for what it was.

The town of Green Haven was lit up that night of the storm.
There were no flickering televisions,
only flames,
no sounds of canned laughter,
only radio reports,
& the scent of burning paraffin that wafted like sooty, curling specters.
Books & board games that had gathered dust were dug out of closets,
while those who had imagination told stories like Andy had told Opie;
people had conversations on porches with those they could not see,
their voices floating like soap bubbles that popped in the trees.
We prayed for clouds like a rain dance—
to shield us from the demonic sun that was like a dictator,
oppressing us with its brutality.
But this was not the storm that frightened me,
for I was the meteorologist who could see
the change of climate that had come into our home—
a home which had once been warm,
yet frozen in his warmth,
even as it would become fluid
in its rapidly cooling state.

Logline for Because of Mindy Wiley An Irish-Catholic girl coming of age in the Deep South during the New Millennium finds her family splintered when two Mormon missionaries come to her door, their presence and promise unearthing long-buried family secrets, which lead to her excommunication and exile.

Micropoetry Monday: Homesong

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The hurricane ushered in a new era:
of forgotten board games being dusted off,
conversation without background noise,
& books being read again.

They settled in the land of opportunity,
built a green house off the grid,
went to school & work at home,
& found a sustainable life balance.

She moved West where she did not belong,
returning home where the connective tissue
of culture & family healed her, filling in the cracks.

She hungered, but did not thirst,
nor was she naked, but her clothes did not fit.
Her house was small, but livable.

Laurey never got her Barbie Dream house
but she got her dream guy.
She never got her dream car,
but her children were a dream unrealized
come true.