Sand paper hands -after Ana Perhaps the last ten minutes never occurred. The last ten months. Ten years. How have I sustained loneliness under this drowsy moon. How does a snail slur a gelatin belly over a suburban curb to discover plastic grass the rabbits refuse to nibble. The murmur of Mission Gorge industry snaps silence in half & these sand paper hands abrade the flesh into fresh shreds of this invisible stranger. I am afraid to let silence speak, tonight as you dream of someone new.
Black Fleece I leave Viejas with another woman who is not you, a lightless moon an empty void where the billfold once bulged. We gamble with traffic on Interstate 8 slice across El Cajon like a box cutter the wide open windows spill Eddie Vedder’s vocals into the night. All I hear is her laugh like a firecracker, her energy explodes into the accelerator steers the Volvo viciously over all lanes the bobs & weaves around drunken shoppers oil addicts big boys with bigger toys & proud minivan owners clogging the left lane. I remember you said once there is too much El Cajon in El Cajon too much concrete too much crime the endless sprawl thirsty for immortality hungry to prove we existed, we were more than ashes in history. As the lamp posts wink at the stars I offer this black fleece a gift from you, one last memory to discard out the window & release into the dying night.
Kelly Braden is the author of Hypermnesia. His father left home when he was four, and his childhood was troubled by poverty. He has worked as a handyman, a dishwasher, a stock boy, a warehouse worker, a genealogist, a basketball coach, a Big Box store manager, and a Dot Com Casualty.