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Three Prose Poems by
Queen of the Night
A woman in the eighteenth century wanted to wear the world as her dress. She slipped her feet into the ocean. That might make nice shoes and the little bit of surf at its edge was decorative. But the ocean was too cold and kept changing. She wiggled into a bush but the bush tickled. Night came. She climbed a mountain. It was an extinct volcano and the hole on top was just her waist size. She looked good in black. Perhaps this dress was a bit formal. But she liked it. Now she needed someone to sing her praises. She thought of the artist Turner but there was too much yellow in his paintings. Perhaps Constable. But he was more interested in cows. Then she remembered Mozart. Despite his low humor and the scatological implications of his obsession with his dear sister’s bodily functions—Mozart, yes, Mozart. He would make her dress blacker than the night and she would move slowly as mountains do, smoothly as if on tectonic rollers, vast as the world, imperial as the night. She would be a queen in Mozart’s music, and the stars would be perfect accessories for her tall, silver wig.
Memory
After I was born I was placed in a glass suitcase. At least that is the first thing I remember. The suitcase was placed in an apple orchard. It was night and I was cold. But a lady brought me a blanket and stuffed it in with me, along with some bunched-up newspapers. Later she came back and introduced me to my father. He was the rising moon, but was stuck in the tree branches. My sisters were twins who looked so much alike even they were unsure of who was who. I don’t recall their names. I read in the newspapers that my brothers were away at war. We moved to a house. My mother and sisters sat in the living room. There seemed to be a secret, something wonderful, in the closet, but no one spoke about it. Inside the closet there were many small shoes. Piles and piles of small shoes. While rummaging through the shoes I found a tiny, yellow skull. But that was long ago. Now I wake up and write in my journal. 8:00 a.m., I just woke up. A nice lady brings me coffee. 8:03, I just woke up. A nice lady brings me coffee. She says she is my wife. I like her. 8:05…
A Thing You Did Not Do
A thing you did not do is a pickpocket. A nondescript white guy in a second-hand powder-blue suit. Most people wouldn’t notice him but you do. It’s that prison saunter, even in a crowd. Slowdrag’s a giveaway. Another thing you did not do climbs in your window at three in the morning, always at three in the morning, ¡ai! She’s wearing a brown suede jacket and has a green and yellow plastic bracelet on her wrist. She sits in a chair, slightly bouncing and swaying as if she’s on a bus, waiting, hoping you’ll speak to her before her stop. She thinks she’ll never see you again. Wrong. Here she is, sitting by your bedside at three in the morning watching you sleep. That first thing you did not do is getting a haircut. He’s talking up the barber, establishing eye contact, rapport. You know he’s going to do oh I left my wallet in the car be right back. Even if you could alert the barber, he wouldn’t believe you. He likes the thing you did not do. He’s telling him a joke in Spanish, which the thing you did not do pretends to understand. Perhaps it’s a small thing you did not do. You meant to, and mentioned it to friends, Why bother, they said, and you listened. A small thing someone else did not do calls you on the phone. Apparently she has mistaken you for someone else with the same name. You explain she has the right name, but the wrong person. That’s all right, she says, and you continue talking late into the night. |