A trapeze artist preens before mirrors, her breasts scarred from falls and steps mistaken. The handsome magician, drink in hand, rummages through life’s deceptions. I juggle cotton candy dreams with sugar waffle fantasies.
I am safe, in a hatbox
among the elephants and the lions.
Confused, by crowds hurrying to see and those rushing to leave.
There is suspicion between art and life, which is more accurate? Hugging the curb of want, I have a razor’s edge view of fate,
a tapestry of spreading shadows, woven with brandished egos
and profound fear.
Time to move,
time to shake off the numbness of bad luck and missed opportunities against the dark of the world. I look around me, not wide-eyed,
but cautiously aware calamities are paradoxes swelled with inconveniences.
Paper plates, cups, and torn balloons are strewn about. Flies and other insects swarm on the decaying food. The heavy air heats the remains of liquid in discarded bottles. Mosquitoes swell, while toads contemplate their next moves. I notice wheels from broken strollers, dirtied diapers, and abandoned plastic products, all scattered on the dry, dusty ground. And everywhere that stench of trash, of garbage, of things sweet and sticky tossed away. Appetites crave more. And more indicates an unappeasable desire.
Thick ropes on large poles are loosened, tents collapse and restlessness permeates, reverberating through the animal cages.
There are no more illusions. The high wires have disappeared. The thrills have become thoughts lost in the distance. The mesmerization of magic and mysteries has faded.
Life is a hammer pounding on an anvil, and all the ruptured canopies must be mended before the next show.
I am a Consummate Gardener
I am a consummate gardener, living without pretense. I dig, pull out clover, pull out weeds, but I let stones remain. Stones, tell me how I have gardened. They ask to be touched. I rub them between my fingers, feel the caked dirt, and listen to their stories. They lie, though. They want to please so they complement desires.
My big brown dog, bright-eyed and unphased by dirty, muddy, or wet paws, never travels far from me. I unleash her, and she never strays. She is content to be my archangel, while I do all the spading, weeding, transplanting, trenching, scraping, with few tools and without a smile. Every time I step into this garden, like Sisyphus, my perpetual punishment continues.
Squirrels conspire with birds to distract me. Occasionally, I uncover the small bones of their relatives. Now and then, I find what they have buried. But most times, I poke, plow, and think about the absurdity of gardening and the futility of being successful at it.
My neighbors scoff at me. They have no spirited dog or dismissive cat. Their trees are tall, and professionals tend full leafy bushes. They are a distant couple who spend no time outside their thoughts, self-absorbed with moral decay; they measure time by what is possessed. It is better to harvest treasure with false conviviality then dig and unearth shards of sharp objects that cut and disfigure.
Wasps and bees circle, dart, and linger. If they are annoyed, they will sting. Blister beetles, if ingested accidentally or incidentally, can cause death. Orange and black monarch butterflies warn they are toxic and toads never fail to startle me. The larger animals, muskrats, moles, and raccoons make their presence known as the moon rises, when I am dining, sinning, or reading about gardening. No matter how pleasing, there is no music, that can be appreciated while your hands are going deeper into the darkness.
It is no secret, the earth’s blackness is an uncompromising foe, indifferent to all things living.
The sun sneers and the clouds darken, winds race to find me, the moisture from the lake picks up the dust and sprays my face. I am an addict, single-minded with one purpose. I acknowledge that. There are no distractions just restless absurdity.
I wear no knee pads, no protective covering, no gloves. I dislike hats. And I hate when I feel sweat and dirt glide down my back. I am never satisfied with what I am accomplishing. But that has little to do with gardening.
My dog sniffs the exhumed soil, and, as I twist my hands
to seize what is deeper, I realize I have underestimated the potential of gardening, like I have underestimated the potential of my own curiosity.
With no Destination The crowded elevator travels up, up, up,
emptying those preoccupied with purpose. A small boy with soft brown eyes is the last to exit. I am alone,
continuing to ascend.
The door rattles open, icy winds and swirling snow greets me. I sense rather than see. The storm is overwhelming. Resignation creeps upon me as the elevator disappears, leaving no trace of its existence.
With no destination, uncertain and without direction I step. With each move I sink deeper into the snow. Sky and horizon blend into a shapeless, white screen.
A distantly remembered voice interrupts the blindness. An image just out of reach. A handsome young man, imagined but true, comes my way.
Every
chaotic white moment becomes another. The aimless snow whirls about us, without form or regard, restless yet sublime.
I trudge further into cold uncertainty, and from the icy opaqueness, my weary brown eyes indelicately surrender to the bleakness of my unforgiving dreams.
Philip received his M.A. in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, Falls from Grace, Favor and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Two novels, Caught Between (Which is a 24-episode Radio Drama Podcast https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/) and Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript. His novel, an erotic thriller, Far From Here, will be out in the Winter of 2023. One play, The Apparition. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.
I press the towel to my face for a long time. A lot longer than when I get out of the shower at home, when a few swipes take care of the drips. The shower at the gym is different: It is the final stint of nearly an hour of wetness, most of which is spent with my head in the water as I swim my laps.
During all that time, I’m not aware of the water as wet. It is, rather, temperature: The comforting warmth of my pre-swim shower. The tunnel of balm in the steam room. The shock of cold in the corridor between the locker room and the pool. The coolness I resign myself to when I lower myself into my lane. A temperate embrace once I get going. A chill when I get out and the air sucks the drops from my body. The blasting heat of the shower that follows. The humid moisture that remains in the stall.
Then the towel. It is far from plush, smaller than I wish it were. I grab it from its hook beside the shower curtain, unfold it and lift it to my face. I don’t rub or pat; I press gently, holding the nubby fabric against my cheeks. I stand like that for a few moments. It is only then that I notice I have been wet for so long, and I can’t wait to be dry.
Susan Hodara is a journalist, memoirist and educator. Her articles have appeared in The New York Times, Communication Arts, and more. Her short memoirs are published in assorted anthologies and literary journals, including River Teeth, Feed and Airplane Reading. She is one of four co-authors of the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers” (Big Table Publishing, 2013). She has led memoir writing workshops for many years. More at www.susanhodara.com.
Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”
