Smother It

Lost again, at the moment.

She wrings her brain around her heart. Smother it. Smother it. Smother it. Her heart doesn't kick, doesn't flail, doesn't go for the eyes. It goes easily. It's apathetic. She wrings her brain around her heart. She confirms it's apathy.

What happened to those glorious days of good feelings? Her heart on eagle wings. Blood on a race track. What happened to the glorious days of defeat? The deafening, diving sub of security. Sound the alarms. The tears soaked through the sheets. Smother them. Smother them. Smother them.

Certainly, good or bad is better than her insides standing still. She's not good at that, a Grandfather clock with no tick or dong. It's all too easy. The cereal for dinner. The leaving dishes in the sink. The bed never resting, never exhausted. It's all too steady. No variance. Almost boring, though she won't admit to that. She's no bore. She smothers that. Smothers that. Smothers that.

Her heels pound against the bitter sidewalk. She keeps reminding herself: keep the knees loose, take shorter steps. It's slick out. The chill permeates through the soles of her boots. They are made in Brazil. Her feet won't be warm again today.

She sees Jessie through the window of his building, like Sir Isaac, Jessie Newton. He was waiting for her. He waves. He blows a kiss. She should invite him to breakfast one morning. She wondered how he ended up gray, never having been married. She waves. She blows him a kiss. He flashes his teeth in a grin. It's the most romantic thing in her life. Jessie.

The city is blue. 12 degrees without the windchill. The office is 72 degrees. Her feet never get warm. And somehow, the sub feeling is coming. She gulps it away. Sips her coffee. Drinks her water. Breathes intentionally. It subsides. Smother it, smother it, smother it.

The Raven

Third Act:

A raven haired beauty enters stage left. Her head hangs in a teardrop. She steps, dragging a thick rope of chains at her feet. They scratch the floor like the nails of a Halloween ghoul. Her black dress flows in a glide, ruffling like in a slight wind at her own funeral. A cello plays. The houselights dim, surrounding her silhoutte in an ice blue beam. She raises her skinny arms, long wings casting a shadow across the crowd. Three finger long hooks pierce the skin and muscle of each arm, heavily suspended.

Her mouth opens and she chirps a soft hymn. She raises the chain and attaches a section to one of the hooks.

I hide my eyes. My stomach is leaping. I turn around so that I'm not tempted. She continues to sing and I tell them to let me know when the hooks are done.

A scuffle of bodies near the front. One girl goes down in a faint. The song continues and the crowd parts to let a friend carry her out. My eyes peer over knitting eyebrows and mouths shaped in capital Os. Near my other friends, another girl goes down. Let her out. The song continues. Then in front of me, another girl. And then another. And then another. 7 women went down on our side.

A friend leans against the wall to steady herself, another hands out water, and I still try not to look. The song ends and the raven, creeps from the stage.

I wondered if there is a gas leak. Though, it's not improbable that the raven physiologically effected her audience in such a manner. I'm still in awe of it.

The Story of the Rooster

I was stuck on the rooster. Each time I put pen to page about the rooster, I met an ocean. A warm swell stemming from my heart, squeezing through my larynx and cresting behind my eyes. I wonder if the rooster had her eyes.

“Did you hear that rooster this morning?” I ask.

“Did I? Oh, that darn thing. It lives up in the mango tree somewhere, you know.”

“Oh.” I pushed scrambled eggs and sliced tomatoes around on a plate, “It doesn’t belong to someone?”

“No. It’s wild.” She said and then leaned towards me in a whisper, “I think Mrs. Kagauwa feeds it though.”

“Hmmm. How long has it been there?”

“Oh, about a year and a half, I’d guess. It used to have a friend, you know. I think someone tried to catch it because one day I saw the friend and he was missing his tail feathers.” She ran a small hand through her silver hair and peered through the kitchen window at the Mango tree. “I haven’t seen the friend since.”

My grandmother passed away around the time the rooster showed. My grandmother and great aunty lived in this house together since 1961, though the house was a Miranda residence since the 40’s. It’s the only address I could never forget. I wondered if the spirit of my grandmother was somehow connected with the rooster. If she was watching over my Aunty, the last of all the old folks in Hawaii.

In a week, I hadn’t been able to sleep past 5:30 a.m. The rooster had seen to that.

I passed the time at the house by helping my Aunty rake the yard, hanging clothes on the line and peering behind the rubbish cans for geckos. My Papa used to catch geckos for my sister and myself. I’m not sure how he did it. Geckos are particularly rascally. A 29 year old woman getting outsmarted by a few little geckos is a sight to see. On late night TV one evening, I saw a story on an 11 year old girl lizard hynotist. She cradled them onto their backs and stroked their bellies a few times. It paralyzed them. She and her father started a photo project where she would dress the lizards in costume while in this state and pose them on miniature objects; motorcycles, diner stools, phone booths, speed boats. I wondered if the geckos could be hypnotized. I never caught one. I made spotting the rooster my new mission.

An old ladder was propped against the trunk of the 65 year old mango tree. I peered through the cavernous green canopy of her branches from the ground. It was dizzying. I’m mildly terrified of heights. Rather, once I get up, it’s a horrible task to come down.

“Whatcha doing?” My dad’s voice came from behind me. “We’re gonna cut down some of these branches next week after you leave.”

“I’m looking for that rooster.” I said.

“We should catch him and set him free near the cemetery when we put flowers on the grave. There’s another rooster there. Maybe he'd like some company."

The connection between my grandmother dieing and the timing of that rooster made the thought a bit startling. Who would watch over Aunty then?

I couldn’t escape death. It was all around me; it crept from the neighbor’s bed, slid through the thick-armed leaves of the papaya trees, slithered between the siding and into my bedroom. She was dieing over there. The next morning, I slept until 8. The rooster was gone. The next night, I stayed up listening to the woman dieing and wondering where the rooster went.

My aunty thought someone caught it for Christmas and cooked her. It made me sick to think about. At church, I prayed that the woman would feel no pain and for the rooster to return.
During dinner that evening, the neighbor’s daughter knocked on the door and told us that she had passed away. And at 5:30 a.m. the next morning, the rooster cocka-doodle-dooed me awake. I hoped he never caught that rooster.