“Are you time?”
There were screams coming from the hallway and she was pacing the dark room picking up objects and putting them down.
“Are you time?”
Florence had been gifted a pair of scissors earlier that day, actually. Well, she stole them from the craft box. A nice trinket for her room. Large too. There was a giant bruise forming on her shin where she had just run into her armchair on the way to get them.
‘Don’t eat your buttons, Florence,” Mya  had said to her earlier
“Where is my cuckold?”
“Girl, what?” she laughed, turning her back to check on Bob and Florence pocketed the scissors with the red handle.
A new shiny object to touch. She went back to touching the pearly white buttons of her sweater and lifting them to put them in their mouth.
“Oh my god, Flo, I have to watch you every second.”
Mya gently took her hands and guided them away from the buttons and her mouth and set them on her lap. She looked her in the eyes.
“Flo, this is not lunch time. It’s craft time.”
“Where is my husband?”
Mya stroked her cheek and walked over to Janette.
“Are you time?”
She picked up one of the pieces of green wire and tried to make it into a fork so she could finish lunch. She began to nibble her fingers. Try to eat your carrots, someone had said. Keep mistaking them for thumbtacks and you stick them in my arm. Keep mistaking them for buttons and you tuck them in your shirt. Are you time? She began to bite her nails and then saw a pea on her shirt. She picked it up and put it in her mouth.
“Florence!”

It was after dinner and dark, pitch black, unusual. There were moans and yelling and Florence was standing at her bureau stroking the scissors and a shell she had found. She couldn’t remember the day at the beach picking up the scissors but she did remember today at lunch picking up the shell. Try to form a sentence.Try to remember things for whole minutes at a time.I like broccoli. We had wine sometime near November, it was raining and chilly. I wore white with a pearl knit sweater, there were daisies on the table and I almost threw a fit. I saw my mother and try to remember the dance.
Florence began to sway, cupping the scissors and the shell. There was no light from the window and she couldn’t feel the bruise on her leg. Sometimes, she can stand alone for minutes at a time but most days she needs help getting back to her room, undressed, in bed. The scissors had been in her pocket and would have been discovered if Mya had time to change her but she was clean.
“Eat your crackers, Florence.’
She had no accidents in her diaper that day. Mya had helped her with her lunch. Try the zipper; it looks like an upside down fork so let’s eat our soup with it. Where is my knife?
“Here, here is the napkin.”
But what came next?
Try to remember how to pick  up the fork. Florence began pushing the scissors into the shell in an effort pick up the food and eat it. She did not hear the man enter the room or walk up behind her or even whisper,
“Flo, are you ok?”
Eat the napkin?
You wore a white dress that day.
When I was a kid the world was a rainbow and we chased the yellow storms for that sweet pinch of gold. I had goosebumps in September. I lost everything come November.
“Where is my husband?
White and pink trim.
“It’s me, Bob.”
Where is my spoon?
Try the light switch. You just had it here somewhere.
Where am I?
Bob touched her shoulder to get her attention and she remembered the way it felt on her wedding day. The world is a colorful frown. An upside down money dispenser. Luck of the something.
You were petrified and pretty and already broken by a midnight stallion                          so he
“Florence, the power is out.”
She held the red handle firmly and released the shell and steadied herself on instinct. Her movements now slow and forced and wobbly. But she was able to turn around. Where am I? Who AM I? The room was lit only by a battery powered ballerina in the corner so she could see the outline of his face and glasses and checkered collar but nothing from the chest down and she didn’t really notice Mya behind him. She neatly placed the blades to his throat and pushed as hard as she could until he gurgled and grabbed at her arm which was strong from supporting herself on wobbly knees. She was able to push it in further. She was able to stand. No accidents today.
I wore white that day.
I ate cake that day.
I have bean soup somewhere.
I want cake.
This is a button to put in my shirt.
She pressed harder and then grabbed his top bottom. As he fell backwards,  Mya screamed, alarming Florence. Shaken for only a moment, yet mostly unperturbed, she pulled the button off of his shirt and let him fall.
“Something tastes like lilac bleach.”
Get that out of your mouth!
There was a spoon.
I wore white.
I wear white.
It is permanently night.
Mya was screaming and another attending came and she heard gurgling. Steadying herself with her right hand again, she licked the button first and then placed it in her mouth, on her dry tongue and tried to swallow it feeling it lodge itself in her throat. You cried and you cried and you swore
Where am I?
Is it night?
I did listen.
I am listening.
I am listening.
I didn’t do anything: it was a riding lesson.
I am listening.
I was a faithful virgin until you.
The rain is whispering and broncos are chasing you
to canopies of sense and wonder and you wonder.
“Flo, are you listening? I brought you some cake. Vanilla.”
Suddenly two arms were around her and pushing on her stomach until she coughed something out.
And you promised him it was nothing.
Nincompoop.
“I’m a ninny,” she said being lowered to the chair
Here him whinny.
Here me whine.
I said something.
I’m a ninny.
I said no.
He said, “bend over, Flo, you will learn to like it.
She turned to both of them, their mouths agape, Bob sprawled on the floor.
“There is my cuckold,” she pointed.
She was sitting in the armchair now listening to Mya cry.
“Are you time?”
The nursing home was filled with cries.

“the black out” or “the woman who was raped by the men”

i don’t know what is better: to write or to have written but I do know that the devolvement I suffered from my creative process is all i was seeking. to be finished, incomplete, that is a promise.  anything else is good luck.

“And if you love, if you really love,
our guns will wilt.”

We sat back in our respective seats; me, more comfortable and relieved, him, seemingly waiting for something. I twisted the straw in my pocket and tried to think of innocuous conversation starters but felt the silence wash over us. I wondered what he was thinking. He watched the fire.
“This is the perfect time for brandy,” he said.
“May I take my shoes off?”
“Of course!”
He turned back to me and I didn’t want him watching me. I didn’t want to take them off but they were heavy, wet. His eyes first fell to my fingernails: stubs, dirty probably, as they reached towards my laces. I am used to throwing my shoes off without untying them: hitting the back of the ankle with my other pleather toe. But when being watched I am more careful, performing the action rather than living it. I untied my left shoe slowly and he watched me. There was no sound outside so between us just a fire crackling and the faint sound of my hand lifting the heel of my boot off of my foot and the light tumble to the floor. He turned his head back to the fire. I began to untie the other shoe in stark silence. An uncertainty lay between us.
“Do you have any brandy?” I asked.
“I wish,” he didn’t look at me. ‘You drink?’
A little clunk to the floor to break the tension.
“I wish,” I raised my arms above my head and stretched my feet out, moving my toes up and down. “Moments like this I wouldn’t mind. I prefer whiskey though.”
“Oh yeah?” his eyes turning to befall my pointed toes.
“Yeah. Or wine.”
He turned his body to face me. He was attractive. Kind of like a cabin man: boring khaki colored uniform, sad eyes, full thick beard and full head of hair. Handsome without peacocking,  no issues attracting women but an arrant bore and slightly off-putting with his distance. Something about him stirred trepidation in me. His house had no pictures or relics of memory, at least that I could see. Maybe he hid everything. This isn’t the time of Dionysus or chalices but to be careful and severe. And warm. I was a stranger. But he was a stranger too. I wiggled my outstretched fingers and set my feet back on the floor.
“You ever been married?”
“No.”
Try not to be so short.
I coughed, “I’ve been close. Once or twice. Nothing too serious.’
“You said you just moved here?”
“Yep.”
“From where?”
“Colorado.”
“Colorado?” He straightened himself and leaned forward. “Why would you leave such a beautiful place like that?”
“Stupidity.”
I threw my arms up. My ankles were crossed, legs outstretched, feet yearning for the fire. I placed my hands back on the top of my thighs and sat leaning forward too so we were facing each other, fire in the background. I was on the edge of my seat as was he. What else?
“When did you move here?”
“About two months ago.”
“Where do you live now?”
“ A few blocks, on the edge of Society Hill.’
I waved my hand towards the window.
“Queen Village?”
I shrugged, “To be honest, I am still learning the lay of the land.”
“What’s your address?”
Uh-uh. Timidly, I shook my head biting my bottom lip.
“Of course. You don’t know me.”
“It’s not…’
He interjected, “No, you should be careful. I can reassure you I won’t hurt you but my reassurance is lip service.”
He turned back to the fire. I looked at the floor. Ask about the painting. But I don’t care.
“Did you paint that?”
“What? That?” He pointed to the painting. “No, I bought that at an auction.”
Don’t ask him how much.
“It was 7500.”
I bit my tongue.
“Sorry, that’s tacky.”
“Oh, no, I mean, it’s large. Oil?”
We both stared at it.
“Yes.’
I have to stay the night here.
“It’s beautiful.”
I have to keep talking.
“Thanks.”
The fire crackled and I was already hungry again.“My name is Ava,” I reiterate. “Ava Allinger.”
“Tom. Tom Pearson. Sorry, I never said my name.”
“It’s ok. I never told you my last name. It’s nice to meet you, Tom.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ava Allinger.”
I wish I had some wine or a joint or a friend here. I reach my hand in my pocket to touch the straw as we sit in silence, running over our stories in our head and our names. Not our names, but the other’s name. Deftly, I sit but in my mind I maunder.

His living room was modest save the fireplace. Small, in fact. More like a den and given the situation, the room was darker than it normally would be but it also felt dark. Really, a square the size of a one bedroom, and unwelcoming. Like a cave. Besides the crackle of the fireplace, nothing lived. There were, again, no pictures. There was no furniture except an end table between the two seats: an armchair and a couch. He gestured to the armchair.
“Please, get comfortable.”
I looked behind me before sitting. A habit with cats but also a feeling of mist everywhere. The whole room felt like it needed to be dusted: stale and languid and noxious in some minor way. His wife may have picked out the burgundy throw pillows to match the drapes but the focal point was his: one large painting of a rowboat docked on a lake, trees in the distance. This was his motif. This was the home of mundane lonely man with no taste or value. The couches were tan, fabric, two pillows. The armchair matched with a similar color throw blanket hanging over the back. The walls were light green, sort of an easter green, or tan, I couldn’t see exactly. She did this. That painting is his though. He probably bought it. She took everything else and he hid all the pictures.
“Nice to be by a fire, huh?”
I nodded. My hands were on my knees and I was on the edge of the armchair. He was on the seat of the couch nearest the fire. There were two windows on either side of the painting, both curtained, that dark blood red and closed. No light peeking in. This room was too dark. I suddenly became nervous and almost stood up.
He was watching me.
I nodded again. A nervous habit. Keep nodding.
“Where is your bathroom?” I stood up.
“I’ll show you,” he also stood up.
My boots were heavy, wet and I tried to pick my feet up when I walked. I didn’t want him asking me to take them off. Draw no attention. I was probably tracking mud throughout his house. He had said nothing about me wearing all my clothes. It’s freezing.  He took me back through the dining room and around the kitchen, on the other side of the wall. To see the layout. There was a couch and a hassock and some blue thing, like an old toy, almost looked like a dog toy, on the floor. I couldn’t make things out. He hadn’t lit any candles or used a flashlight, opting instead to lead me with his assurance. I swooped down to grab the straw as we passed the front without him noticing. Maybe he never noticed it dropping, laying. Elation, pure elation, just from touching it.  I even felt the tingle rise in my chest as soon as my knees cracked on the way back up. Quickly, I placed it in my coat pocket, the coat I had yet to take off. Fingering it, a smile spread across my face when he turned to show me the entrance. I was beaming and he was smiling and there was an exchange. I missed you. Feeling it in my pocket as I walked the step up.
“Watch your step,” I said.
Clenching it. Clenching jaw. Clenching the plastic. I stood at the mirror, flame dancing below it, my face a haze of sneer.
“Do anything you want tonight.”
I took my hands out to unbutton my pants and pull them down and then stuck them immediately back in my pocket as I sat on the toilet. My joints had a rhythm to them. The shut of my teeth started, then the twisting in my finger tips, then I began to hum. Reunited with an earlier thought, sorrow fell away. They say excretion is one of the first joys we learn as a kid so is clutching, touching, grabbing. If you asked me right then what I felt, I’d say incanting.
I’d say enraptured.
Took my hands out to wipe to flush.
I’d say joyous.
Wash my hands.
“How would you describe me in three words?” I asked him once.
Dry with light green towel sitting on hamper. It was moist.
“Umm, from what I know….steadfast.” 
“Ok.”
“Enchanting.”
“Yep.’
“Astute.”
I threw the door open and placed my right hand back in pocket.
“Good?’ he asked.
“Very.’
He led me back to the living room past the larger couch and space but no fireplace and I noted. He said nothing as we passed the front door.
“How would you describe yourself?”
He gestured again to the armchair.
“May I take my shoes off?”
“Pernicious.”
He looked up at me from the bed. I kind of towered.
“Paranoid.”
I went to grab the candle off the candlestick.
“I am not sure if I want to say experimental or the other word I am thinking of.”
I walked back towards him with the candle stick.
“These,” I looked down at him, “are not safe for wax play.’
I began to drip the word vengeful on his unshaved chest.

I suddenly develop a phobia of water in my adult life where I had spent my entire childhood swimming.

clue #1

 give it to me, God
can be a risky request.

immured in soft crystal, I felt
on the verge of crossing
borders and mostly unhinged
all winter.
my hair was combed,
my lips were never chapped,
I wore blush every day and
stockings with no
runs.   my tongue  was tied
completely
and no one asked
what I may have needed.

chased an impartial sun
half of December
and spent the other half
shrouded,
soaked in flower essences.      I preferred
helenite draped in tiger’s eye so I’m more
sudden hot eruption than slow boil
but tonight I try more benevolent blooms
and pausing
and
watch my flimsy, cherry-dipped
ylang ylang fingertips
shake unsteadily
and without any observable provocation,
suddenly stop untying my velvet collar,
suddenly shy away from the mirror,
suddenly lunge and land
on my ball of green obsidian
delicately scraped from the bottom of some
extinct volcano;
still mired in sudden climax,
rinsed and smoothed for my
handling pleasure. 
it was
heart chakra activating.

they said for wisdom.
for understanding.
for love, for love, for
soft, soft
l  o v e
with protection.
and my heart;
poor, twisted carnivore
always unsure
can shift her way into a
permanent snarl
with protection.

I stomp into the other room and
shatter the bowl
he let me borrow.
leave it broken, shiny
on the kitchen’s peeling
linoleum.
strip my skin of clothes and scent in
a hot steam bath
and let the pieces
rest.
watch my step
around the house
for now.

my place,
cracked and full of red:
a carnelian web.
you see my long legs
dangling before you see
the rest of me.

“heart”

“when it happens, it happens.”

–responses from God during meditation, 12/31/13, 11:11 pm