Colors of Gratitude

Despite my visit to the E.R. on the 22^nd, due to my passing out in Shakespeare class (1.5 hours after I gave blood), my being told I am anemic, iron deficient, I feel fantastic. I am a healthy twenty-two year old woman who cannot go a day without laughing.

I told Jesse, right after the appointment, that I was a little anemic. That night I watched Scrubs and a few other shows in the Community Building in the UVA with friends. We all drooled as commercial after commercial features Outback Steak House, and other steaky-places.

Jesse called me the next day and asked if I was hungry. I was. He picked me up and we headed West, but the restraint we were going to was not open yet. So we cruised around Petco, talking about what pets we had as children, and which ones we would never have as adults. As 4 o’clock rolled around we sat down at Black Angus, ate a four-course meal, and were we were so full the waitress let us sit around because she understood.

The best way to go about life is to never forget that it can all be swept out from under your feet in no time at all. I look around my bright orange studio; think about my purple Civic; the green-blue eyes of my love; the black ink of pens; and the smooth white of the calendar on my pull-out desk: and I understand that all the things I have, no matter where they stand on the color spectrum, are all precious things. I cannot take anything for granted because I have sworn not to. I refuse to miss something only after it is gone.

January was a good month, a solid moth that was laced with wind and the promises of lessons learned.

And there goes January. This Saturday went particularly fast as well—time must be speeding up.

I watched the sun cross the sky, descend with a smile, and color the sky like a blue honey-dew as it slid behind the horizon.

I am so happy. I am so content. I feel each day like a deep breath through my lungs.

This is bound to be my best (though last) semester ever.

"Eyeglasses"

It began with eyeglasses.
We began to see the flaws in our bodies.
The more we saw, the more we hated,
and the more we had to fix.
Fix my sight. Now my hair to match.
Now my skin, bronzed like gods.
Wasting away so we can show our waists.
We began to fix. Then we began to break.

Excessive, obsessive, oppressively taking
away from our bodies.
Our bodies. Our selves. Individuals selling
their images for a more
acceptable, seducible, inexcusable one.
It began with eyeglasses
and it won't end until we are completely blind.

One in the Morning

One in the morning

sounds like the minute hand of a clock in the dark.
It sounds like your breath through your nose.
One in the morning
smells like the dust that coats the top-side of your ceiling fan and sticks there, even when the fan is on high and only falls when it is off.
One in the morning
smells like fog rolling in under your door even though your door is locked. It smells like your shoes by the front door as they are dusted with tiny water droplets brought in by the fog.
One in the morning
looks like your bare footprints on the rose-colored tiles which have no color in the dark. It looks like the pattern of your footsteps went in time with the ticking of the minute hand of the clock.
One in the morning
feels like the page in your book that was left open so you would know where to continue reading in the day time. It feels like the loosened dust particles that fell from the fan onto the page where you began to walk because the tiles do not exist when it is dark.
Everything jumps as the hour hand strikes two and
One in the morning
feels like going to bed, too.

He is a Stream

He is a stream
That is solid
In winter;
Rushing in the spring;
Thoughtful in
The summer;
And mine in the fall.

The Grey Curtain

She walks the sidewalks with her eyes closed. Traffic jets by, her hair whips her face, horns honk. Trash tumbles by, catches in the iron bars of the gutter. She stops to open her eyes. She stares blankly at the garbage. It falls into the drain.

When she was born, all of the nurses began to tremble, the doctor took off his glasses, and her mother passed away. The girl's eyes were open, her mouth was like a distant horizon at dawn, and she was just as silent. The doctor shook as he tried to resuscitate the mother. She stared ahead.

She closes her eyes again, as she is accustom to do. Continuing on her daily walk, she passes an old man, blind and trapped in his own decaying body. He calls out to her for help, for some food, for company. Her high heels click with each step, moving ahead as the grey man has a heart attack.

Stepping off of the curb, brakes squeal and metal collides. People scream and curse, but the girl wraps her scarf about her ears and strides on. Sirens obey Doppler's effect. Police gather to cover bodies with plastic.

She arrives at her apartment. She drops her coat into the closet and watches it slump into the corner. The frayed couch creaks. She kicks her shoes off and unwinds her grey scarf. None of the windows are open. Thumbing the remote, she comes to the news.
Fatal crash caused by jay-walker. Click.
Famine in Uganda made worse by civil war. Click.
Suicide rates rising in America. Click.
Abortion clinic to have grand opening. Click.
Global warming threatens to—Click. Click. Click.

The television screen goes black. She walks over dusty floorboards to the window. Her mouth is like a distant memory. Her eyes are clamped shut as she stares out the window with grey curtains drawn over it.

Fog

Shoes at the door.
Late again.
Empty halls.
Empty of welcome,
full of woe.
The fog's at the windows.
Condensation
On the leaves.
Drip drip,
My dissatisfaction
Descending the eaves.
The view is distorted,
The framework is crumbling.
At least when this
Is all broken down
We will be left with
A solid surface to stand on.
And perhaps it will then
Be daylight.

Edible Identity

There are girls in this class
with names like
“Margarita”
and “Carmella”.
Why don’t more people
name their children
with such scrumptious names?