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The Hiss Quarterly Vol. 5 ~ Issue 4 I Am The Walrus koo koo ka-choo |
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HOW MY TEETH CAME TO BE THIS WAY AND THE CHOICES I MADE BECAUSE OF THEM
Have little to do with my wife’s obsession with snakes. She turns off the heat a few hours before bedtime waking me early with a tired rhythm of cold blood. Some mornings cold wipes the floor with Saran Wrap and she remains undercover till noon. Other times she unhinges herself from bed in a slow stretch of wills to let in the sun. There is always enough stored here and there to fix everything broken, but there is also school, a studio to make music, a need for a new boiler and a roof and my promise to tuck point this summer. When she finds her fingers are warm enough to bend, and her wrists, and her elbows, she bends her long legs and tells me to add earthquake protection to our long list of bills. As frightened as she is of snakes, they are always around her—at the Katie Trail where we walk, in the bushes near the restaurant where we eat, near the opening of our sub-basement. Sometimes late at night, her warm body near, I know her heat as the grip of a constrictor. She owns a python’s strength and sometimes a rattler’s sadness, and still she loves me regardless of my teeth. I try not to find myself in tooth loosening moments, but they find me, one loose tooth at a time. See this missing tooth? That happened when a gang of teenagers with one or more guns jumped one of my students. He is still alive and for his life, I donated that tooth. I can explain what happened to the rest, but it is only more of the same. Have you ever seen someone allergic to cats? Then you know how the cat always welcomes them into its household. That is the way of snakes and my teeth, my wife and my outrage, how sacrifice really does describe all of us. © Michael Brownstein
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 Terry Border |
GHOSTS IN FIVE PART HARMONY HOW TO GET A GHOST TO MOVE OUT OF YOUR HOUSE Do not bite a ghost. They are chalk And have no taste. You can add sage, salt, Pepper, even garlic. It will make no difference. Do not clean everything everyday. Ghosts are blindsided by dust in light. They cannot stand camouflage or invisibility, But remember to remove all of the cobwebs. Ghosts are collectors of spiders and flies. If these rules are not enough, Go on living. Forget about them. They will move someplace else. Ghosts have an obsession to be remembered. SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS Some Sundays they dream in nightmare And other nights dark and light, A shimmer of shadow against white walls, Cold fingered and cold breath, A simple outlook and a simple memory In need of a following. They are generous creatures by habit Willing to share covers, curtains, and wind But never sheets or pillows. YOU CAN STOP A GHOST AT ITS BIRTHING Place a mask over the dead man’s face. Leave it there for others to find. No matter what do not turn back, But listen for the thunder. Always listen for the thunder. A ROOM FOR A GHOST The dog always knows when something is not known, The room empty of everything but thought, A wisdom to shade—heat—an August evening. This is the house of ghosts. A dog does not live here. Nor do small children, new calves, kittens, A parakeet under the fabric over its cage. We are the brave species and we have to understand Living is of consequence. You cannot forgive What you cannot comprehend. Leave The shape of dust to the sun and air, the fog In the mirror to its weight and substance, The change in temperature to a breaking down Of beams, hardwood flooring, the sudden Curve of wall covering in an empty space. HOW TO EAT A GHOST Hunger has nothing to do with it. © Michael Brownstein
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