A Place To Draw Blood Laughing

This post is inspired by two things.

Thing the first: June 2nd is Blogging for LGBT Families Day, and as I happen to think “family” is an idea we each define on an individual basis, I’d say that raising awareness of the existing alternatives to the culturally traditional family structure qualifies as a good thing.

However, I am fried and ill and sneezing all over my computer screen. I’ve assured myself that this is wildly attractive. It is not, however, conducive to coherent thought.

Hence, thing the second: I wrote in the corner of a ratty black notebook this morning “Do something different and brave today.” Why did I write this? I am not in the habit of giving myself little inspirational notes. But in the spirit of that odd moment, here is something a little brave and a little different; a quick visit to another kind of writing. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. A poem. Feel free to cue instrumental music at your leisure.

This is a piece I’m working on for a chapbook-length collection of poetry on the idea of “Family.”

The Five Year Fix

An Irish girl and a bitter ex-Jewish young man move in together.
The first night their new phone rings,
and over the cracking snap of the bad connection
her brother paints a death threat on the young man’s face.
She’s got a family that doesn’t quit
and doesn’t want him around.
He’s got a great black hollow shaped like a childhood,
and another, smaller blue one shaped like a father.
They start hanging thick cocoon curtains that weekend.
She’s thinking marriage,
but it’s only the first week.

Two years later their electric coffee pot melts down,
And they go out for a late night cup.
She’s won something he was supposed to win,
and he pouts a bit over his dinner.
She gives him those deep Irish dimples and says
“At least it’s come into our family.”
He stops, puts his coffee cup down, and says,
“Oh.”
Breathy, like he’s had his heart vein flicked
by her fingernail.

Three years after that she’s back in school and he’s working.
Every night when his key rattles the door
she braces herself against the tile of the kitchen wall and thinks
Tonight’s the night he’ll leave me.
One Thursday he brings groceries home and kisses her cheek.
He says, “Hello,
Love of my life!
I forgot the smoked salmon, I’m sorry.”
And drops the bags on the floor to clench her tight, startled,
as she gulps, gasps, begins to cry.
She leaves a wet patch on his shoulder.
He strokes her hair softly, whispers he’s sorry, love,
please don’t cry, it’s only fish, we’ll be all right.