Table for Two

Hi everyone! I would like to apologize for my lack of activity positing recently! Senior year is in full swing, this means minimal time for writing! Hopefully I’ll be able to post more once things get a little less chaotic, enjoy! 

I am sitting alone at a table for two. Directly across from me is a dining booth, clad in red worn down leather. I am picturing the man who will occupy this empty space; I find myself doing this often. He tells me in a cloudy accent that he’s an architect and he orders a $1.75 Cafe Americano. He has the voice of a lover, this I notice. The stiff white collared shirt he wears clashes with his gentle features, doe like brown eyes and a rounded nose. I want to touch his hand, it’s resting on the table, pinning down the paper menu. I will tell my mother about this man, he will give me purpose. He will have the hands of an architect, knuckles carefully thought out and placed with intention. Almost as if they had corresponding blueprints laying around his office. He will hang my high school portraits in his office and polaroids of us vacationing in Ibiza and Mallorca. There are no bumbling or hanging silences. Our conversations are the most riveting; which in my opinion is a wonderful sign for our first encounter. Possibly my soulmate.

I tell him about what we were taught in my philosophy class last semester. How before the earth was all cement and billboards, it was speckled in flowers and light. Humans had a single head with two painted faces. Four arms and four legs too. That given detail will make him laugh. One storm ridden day, Zeus had become enraged and maddened with human’s self pride and arrogance. As I mention these words, his eyes will soften, because he knows far too well what I am referring to, the monstrosity of man. As punishment, Zeus threw down his lightning rod, piercing the Earth and it’s every occupant, splitting the humans in two. Two arms and two legs, one face too. Humans would have to spend their entireties searching for their other half. He will then tell me that what he’s feeling deep down in his stomach makes sense to him now; this makes my smile beam and my cheeks blush. His breath does not have the strong undertone of gin and he does not slip a single profanity. We would make a great couple.

His name will be plain and simple to remember, something like John or James. James tells me that I have beautiful teeth and girls who look like me shouldn’t smoke. That’s exactly what my mother told me to look for in a lover, someone who sees the stars in my eyes and the poetry written on my skin. I cannot wait to tell her about James, I imagine myself gushing to her over the phone, words pouring out like water from the grand rapids. I make a mental note that we will have to visit Grand Rapids Michigan, bring the kids with us. He then will ask me if I’d like a milkshake, but I say no because I’m watching my figure. I need to be, after all, how can I expect to fit into one of those lace wedding gowns? I can picture myself sitting with James for hours, discussing the balcony he will build me, how our sons will play football just like he did. He is a true gentleman.

I am suddenly brought back. The red of the empty seat across from me is now stinging my eyes. I tap my nails nervously atop the white laminate table top, creating nonsensical and frenzied rhythms. People come and go, laughter echoes through the diner and halts at my table. A nice looking waitress with a plump smile asks me if I am ready to order, I tell her I am still waiting on someone. She gives me a nod and walks away, grasping tightly to a metal tray. I am sitting alone at a table for two.

An Open Letter to the Scar on my Right Knee

This poem was written in a poetry class at University of Maine Farmington’s annual Longfellow Young Writers Workshop. 

 

You are pink and fleshy, hues of salmon, a divot which mars my kneecap

You are the creation of river rocks and clumsy footing

Off balance footing, I would never make it in the circus

Big top, red and white

You are a reminder of the last day laughter filled my belly and crowded my bones

Why don’t scars go away?

Why don’t scars leave, like people so easily do?

 

Mid-September air stung at my skin, prickly sensations scattered my bare ankles

Jumping from brinded rock to brinded rock, he was only a few skips ahead of me

All was below me and with a thudding sound and splashing of icy water

I was below all

Smile still strained, uneven teeth continued to show

I was happy and I was red and the water too was red

Why didn’t my smile go away?

 

Spindly shaking fingers were held out to me and I was back and standing

On five dollar flip flops, legs shaky and knees shaky

Right knee shaking

This the last time our dead skin cells collide

Meshing and melding like seemingly close galaxies

 

After that Tuesday there were no phone calls branching into 2 am

You had still not introduced yourself yet

Come Wednesday our weekly trip to the dingy pizza parlor on the end of South street was abandoned, old habits rotted effortlessly into the ground, leaving its bones exposed

 

Thursday passed and the flowers he had given me began to die

I looked down to my right knee and through the bandage I could feel you growing

You were born into a harsh environment and endured when I knew I could not

 

Sunday night I sat alone in my bed, amongst pillows and sheets and linens

Pink rimmed glassy and jaundiced eyes wanted to look anywhere but down

I needed to look anywhere but down

Yet there seemed to be an anchor which tied itself to my chin

There you were

 

Why don’t scars leave like people do?