PASSING THROUGH

I didn't know you all that well;
just enough to say 'hey'
during my morning walks

You weren't much for talk, either,
but your face always seemed to mask
a myriad of depth I doubt any speech
could lend credence towards,
had you the opportunity,
like voice dubbed in a foreign film,
the lips not quite matching the words

Sometimes I felt like
stopping for small talk,
but something always compelled me
to keep moving,
as though I were an intruder,
as though I might trespass
on something I didn't need to know.

I heard you died the other day;
heart attack in your sleep.
I was stunned at my reaction,
bemoaning the fact that I'd
never stopped to listen,
as if voicing your trials
and tribulations would have
made a difference,
as if it would have made them
any less real,
like dispelling a bogeyman
hiding under the bed
simply by saying his name

I remember one particular morning
just a few short weeks ago,
seeing you sitting blissfully on your porch,
oblivious to passersby,
your face turned comfortably towards the sun,
its light enveloping you
in an intangible halo of peace
as though there was no such thing
as any pain or darkness beyond
its reach


BRIEF ENCOUNTER WITH A
LUNATIC IN A BOOKSTORE

The way things had been going lately,
the last thing I wanted to do was run errands,
but I had a mile-long list I'd been avoiding;
thought I might catch up on half of it,
help distract myself from one disaster
after another

Kept fighting the urge to scream, cry,
or kill someone in my frustrated, helpless
mood, the battle clenching my hands tight
around the steering wheel as I drove,
press of bone turning my knuckles death white
as I jack-knifed into the parking lot,
another stop crossed off the list

Bookstore clerk approached me to ask if
I needed help with anything. "Up here,"
I said, pointing to my head. They started
to chuckle, but I must have had a strange
look on my face, for they smiled awkwardly
before turning to go; even the nearby
customers started to edge their way
subtly towards the door, merely highlighting
the fact that I should not even be out, but
I forced myself to do this, to busy myself
with projects to get my mind off things,
only to find myself stranded, numbly,
in the thick of it all, completely lost
within and even unsure of my actions now,
trying to swallow the fist in my throat
that wouldn't let go, so I turned my back,
grabbed a book and rustled the pages loudly,
almost tearing them in my effort to cover
the uncontrollable sobs that were beginning
to shake my whole body, which, from
everyone's perspective, probably looked
a lot like I might have been laughing


DILUTED

Blinded in the supermarket, walking dumbly
through the aisles, packing my cart high
with sustenance; steaks, breads, cakes,
hoping to put some flesh back on your
whittled frame, hoping your sudden plunge
in weight is nothing serious, not the
unspoken "C," certainly, hoping the tests
come back negative, praying your three-times-
a-day loose bowels are due to some strange
kind of flu, thinking I can entice your
appetite again with all this food as I
pile the cart higher and higher, until it
is spilling over with hope, adding melons
to the mess, fingers tightening around their
wholeness, the sweet perfection within as I
watch children playing, running from their
mother's shouts, using cucumbers as pistols,
their innocent, ignorant bliss a knife in
my ribs, twisting ever so subtly.
I advance, numbly, to the check-out line,
seeing people laugh amongst themselves,
bantering about recipes, grandchildren
and holiday gifts. I am a foreigner; amiss,
not understanding their words and grins, and
I'm fighting like hell not to break like
glass, just shatter at their feet when the
clerk hands me the receipt and says "Have
a good Christmas," and I bite my tongue to
keep the tears from coming, biting down hard
until I can taste the blood, and only when
I can escape to the hooded density of my car
do I let it go, the tears running new and
hot, diluting the blood, the salt making it
bearable, making it taste just a little bit
better


LADY LUCK

It had been that kind of morning;
the pelvic cramping and blood spotting
warning me of a possible loss

I wanted to turn down our big trip to Reno;
we'd planned months in advance for it,
mapping our course, saving our money
hoping to hit it big to dig us out of
the hole we were in, never expecting
a third person to come along for the ride

I didn't think I should go--thought I
should stay off my feet, knowing there
might still be a chance to redeem,
however slim, but I give in, sitting
motionless in the car; quiet, watching
life slip by through the window,
moments gone in the blink of an eye;
you, even unaware of the situation,
chatter endlessly on, taking my
silence as mere trepidation of losing

The casino looms like an all-knowing
demon. I follow you, unseeing, through
the overly-bright building, hearing
coins dropping, bells ringing, everybody
happy and carefree, and me, kinowing
there would be no sense in fighting a
battle already halfway lost, walking
freely amongst the happy people, a
murderer of hope, a bucket of coins
clutched tight in my sweating grasp,
abusing each precious moment,
eventually pushing the coin through
the slot, pulling the lever, taking
my chances, knowing the ball had
already dropped, now rolling completely
beyond reach, no stopping at all, no
going back


All poems previously published in Underground Voices.

© Cynthia Ruth Lewis