Blue Eyes and Dark Curly Hair

Blue Eyes and Dark Curly Hair
Jonella Allen

Burg is on the phone.

I didn’t mean to answer but the black rotary dial phone was ringing and it hurt my ears so I answered just to make it stop and now I’m stuck because even though I haven’t said anything, not even ‘hello,’ Burg knows it’s me with my snarled hair and snot filled tissues.

He wants me to come over.

I don’t want to go but then I find myself asleep on his couch under a quilt.

Burg is nowhere to be found and the couch isn’t his it’s mine, my orange and green couch and my orange and brown quilt. I fell asleep in the living room and the white cordless phone, the kind with the antenna you have to extend to get any reception, is ringing.

I don’t mean to answer but I do and Burg is on the line and he knows it’s me with my dirty fingernails and a Band-Aid on my shin even though I don’t speak.

He wants me to come over.

I don’t want to go but then I find myself baking cupcakes in his kitchen.

Burg is nowhere to be found and the kitchen isn’t his it’s mine with my yellow daisy wallpaper and glitter specked linoleum. I’m baking cupcakes for my daughter’s birthday and the avocado green phone, the one mounted to the wall, is ringing.

I don’t mean to answer but I do and Burg is on the line and, even though I’m not breathing, he knows it’s me with my pierced nose and blood soaked loafers.

He wants me to come over.

I don’t want to go but then I find myself stuffing the apron in the oven and grabbing my keys.

The hallway stretches away from my apartment, the blue-grey carpet shifting like the tide under my loafers, and the stone steps lead up to the front of Burg’s building. The doorman is missing but the intercom rings and, even though I say nothing, Burg knows that it’s me with my bad breath and torn jeans and he tells me to come in while the extended tone of the nine key cuts him off and the door begins to buzz.

I don’t step forward.

I teeter on the edge.

I leave everything behind as I back down the steps, shuffle along the hall, turn though the kitchen, and sit down on the couch pulling my cell phone from my pocket and begin to dial.

Originally published by Cyclamens and Swords Publishing April 2012.

The Prejudice of the Egg

The Prejudice of the Egg
Jonella Allen

It is here, between these tapestries and under grey shingles that I play.
Unfurl the bedroll and build a campfire in the closet.
Kiss the girl.
Sinister tales that have no beginning lurk at the edge of my rotting gate.
It creaks and the Devil produces intoxication in a piggy bank.
The shower races along leaves and twigs under the canopy.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.

An organ grinder appears through the curtain. It is not the wizard.
Each crank of the handle forces cheese through the grater.
Kiss the girl.
I close the book and take off his glasses.
My arms stretch across the pool to stamp out the cigarette.
I don’t smoke.
I inhale deeply, fluttering my lids as the cloud wages war over blue and white buoys bobbing in
the chlorine stringing together the past and the future.
The cardboard fireplace in the lifeguard tower is lined with socks, each with an Orange in the toe
and brimming with walnuts that splash into the shallow end.
Pitter patter of little hooves on the roof.
Pitter patter.
Patter pitter.
Pit. Pit. Pat. Scrape.
Hooves scramble losing traction like roller skates on gravel.
Pat. Pat. Pit. Scrape.
Reindeer tumble past the curtain. Santa’s beard catches on a rusty hook.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape the sides of the bowl. Make sure everything is well blended.

Chop the chicken. The whole chicken. No head and not running.
Sitting on the counter I hold my arms and howl.
Mother crunches the bones, pulling them apart into bite size pieces.
Bear and elephant dance with spears around the cauldron.
My bowl is full of cereal and milk. I insist it rests on the floor.
Eating like a dog without benefit of spoon or fingers. Lapping the milk.
Spoons are used for cutting out hearts.
Kiss the girl.
The rug peels back and the table sinks while chairs take up arms.
Crabapples collect in the upturned Frisbee,
the oversized green Frisbee that the day before had carried Indian war paint.
The sun-faded Frisbee, cracked and waiting like a land mine under the fence,
the fence leading to the rotting gate.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.

My bedroom sloshes with water rushing in from the storm. It needs a place to rest.
The killer whale drifts in on a wave, looking with her tiny blue eye for a meal.
If I stay very still, maybe she won’t see me. She flashes a glance at my cereal bowl.
Kiss the girl.
Clothes spin in the washing machine guided by a lighthouse on the cliff.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
Churn. Churn. Rumble. Pause.
The dirty water explodes into the sink, overflowing, spilling onto the floor.

Wall sconces flicker and burn the degree growing dull in its red border.
Kiss the girl.
Frogs pirouette to Romeo and Juliet, leaping over the rotting gate.
Kiss the girl.
The campfire in the closet extinguishes.
Kiss the girl.
The piggy bank is empty.
Kiss the girl.
The Devil takes his due.
Fuck the girl.
Bread ties and candy-coated chocolate still twist the spoon.
Drip. Drip. Drop. Bambi is afraid of the thunder. But it passes.

Originally published by Cyclamens and Swords Publishing April 2012.

Always

Always
Jonella Allen

It has come to my attention that when I read
out loud I read too fast. This is due
completely to a life long fear of standing in
front of a group of people and speaking.
Worse is reading my own words, my own
thoughts, my own deep seeded terrors, my
own triumphs, both large and small. It is a
fear will never leave. It is one of my
true constants. It is an everlasting North Star.