|
|
|
Table of Contents for Issue 50 Back issuesFAQ Gargoyle's history Last words & epigraphs People say... Buy Gargoyle online This work first appeared in Gargoyle, issue #50. Please respect the fact that this material is copyrighted. It is made available here without charge for personal use only. It may not be stored, displayed, published, reproduced, or used for any other purpose without the express consent of the author or artist. Gargoyle magazine is edited by Richard Peabody & Lucinda Ebersole. GARGOYLE E-mail: gargoyle@gargoylemagazine.com |
Blue PositiveMartha SilanoTo begin I need to tell you about Phoenix, who’s telling me he’s so hungryhe could eat twenty sumo wrestlers, diapers and all. I need to tell you about these puke-yellow walls, about Ms. Potthoff, how she shines in this cluttered, chalk-choked room like the Iowa sun in July, cares for these kids like they care about their class pet Lizzy, a spotted gecko; I need you to see Christabel’s two-inch navy-blue fingernails, who wrote for even your father was once a stranger; also smiling Myra, who tells us Celtic music’s like holding a cat, like taking her first bath, like her brother and sister being born. I need to take off this scratchy sweater, put on my old gray sweatshirt, fraying at the seams, the zipper about to go. I need to tell you about the white boot that used to be my sister’s, then mine, then my little brother’s as he hopped home, one foot bare, one still-warm boot stuck in the neighbor’s drifting snow. Arnold says it’s like the colors of a Mexican sky, a tarpon’s glistening fin, while Jamar, Jamar says we should all have, like the dog whose owner always gives him the last piece of poppy-seed cake, a quiet place to lie down. Listening, I hear the waves off the coast of St. Ives, where gannets, common as pasties, stretched every inch of their seventy-two-inch spans. Listening, I need to take you to the Seep Lakes late, very late on the night of the Leonids, my son with a cold, so in all the photos, where my best friend Lisa Sylvester said an angel had shushed me, had shushed us all, that glistening, which is why I must tell you of Dr. Lydia Adler’s gloved and sterile hands, how I slid out blue, but blue positive; my mother’s blood the rain; if we could see it but we can’t, the sky, Ayla says, isn’t crying; the sky never cries. Our burdens are small, or just the right size. I wore a red and black corduroy jumper, in a lavender dress, sipped wine—a little of hers, a little of theirs, like those seeping lakes, seeping into mine. |
|
| Paycock | Catalog | Gargoyle | Lucinda | Mondo | Richard | Atticus | Links |
|