That moment: the second between when you speak
and I write, reading the movement of your lips,
a symphony on paper, not yet formed in words.
You tell of the day of your birth, the fairgrounds
where the sheep and goats line up, speaking
the language of sheep and goats, as they step
onto the scale to determine their worth
and wait for father to buy the roasted peanuts
he promised you for behaving, helping him
load the cattle onto the trailer without a license
plate. You worried cops would pull you over
after a chase, you in black eye-mask and stripes
like Saturday morning crooks. Your mind wanders
to carnivals from stories, sideshows and ladies,
bearded and fat. And shame
on anyone who pays for entertainment
that degrades another human being. Yawn, recline
in your office chair to appreciate the pond
where your grandfather fell through
ice to save your father from drowning
when he came home drunk from Nam.
And you always return there, as if you
were the one to tromp through chemical jungle,
and come out alive but scarred--
the face of a dead, but lucky man. You lose your place
in your recitation, this message I’m supposed to relay
for you—the cancer that has spread throughout
your family. Tumors of breath, of hands
that cause you to be quick to anger and not so
quick to forget. I want you to find solace, absolution
in constellations—the messages from God, written in light
without humor or irony. Like when my father vowed
to shit a gold brick if we got together, you said he’d
only use it to buy more silver. So you hold me
because he never did. Safe—away from the fire. I ask
if you’ve lost your place again and you say, No.
The pond ripples with the absence of the dragonfly
and as we practice scales in a well-lit room
faux-wood paneled, surrounded by sleeping children
and cats—too many to mention without causing
an eyebrow to raise in curiosity, judgmental.
You laugh at what flashed behind cloud-blue eyes
and we know after this composition is complete
we’ll edit hours and words away, then make
love on the futon where our first son was created,
consummating our commitment beyond
death. Because we know about rogue planets,
string theories, and reverse engineering
from documentaries narrated by paid actors
that have never visited this land where Mormons
traced lines across the soil on their retreat
from persecution. This land where salvation comes
metered out in small doses—the sweat that beads
on our brows, works into our eyes as we pull
weeds from the garden where only spinach
and cilantro seem to thrive. Come Friday, I’ll make
the trip—the five hour drive—to pick up my kids,
then we’ll be a family again. Until Sunday.
Though my ex looms in the corner, like the pile of hair
in The Grudge, ever-present, encouraging
us to make mistakes, to lose focus
of what matters and what we possess:
these small moments, the seconds
between when you speak and I write.
Author Bio:
Jennifer J. Pruiett-Selby is a teacher and mother of four, with a Master’s in English from Iowa State University. Jennifer lives in very rural Iowa where her column {just a word} appears in the local newspaper, and has been published in Red River Review, Matter Monthly and Four and Twenty.
and I write, reading the movement of your lips,
a symphony on paper, not yet formed in words.
You tell of the day of your birth, the fairgrounds
where the sheep and goats line up, speaking
the language of sheep and goats, as they step
onto the scale to determine their worth
and wait for father to buy the roasted peanuts
he promised you for behaving, helping him
load the cattle onto the trailer without a license
plate. You worried cops would pull you over
after a chase, you in black eye-mask and stripes
like Saturday morning crooks. Your mind wanders
to carnivals from stories, sideshows and ladies,
bearded and fat. And shame
on anyone who pays for entertainment
that degrades another human being. Yawn, recline
in your office chair to appreciate the pond
where your grandfather fell through
ice to save your father from drowning
when he came home drunk from Nam.
And you always return there, as if you
were the one to tromp through chemical jungle,
and come out alive but scarred--
the face of a dead, but lucky man. You lose your place
in your recitation, this message I’m supposed to relay
for you—the cancer that has spread throughout
your family. Tumors of breath, of hands
that cause you to be quick to anger and not so
quick to forget. I want you to find solace, absolution
in constellations—the messages from God, written in light
without humor or irony. Like when my father vowed
to shit a gold brick if we got together, you said he’d
only use it to buy more silver. So you hold me
because he never did. Safe—away from the fire. I ask
if you’ve lost your place again and you say, No.
The pond ripples with the absence of the dragonfly
and as we practice scales in a well-lit room
faux-wood paneled, surrounded by sleeping children
and cats—too many to mention without causing
an eyebrow to raise in curiosity, judgmental.
You laugh at what flashed behind cloud-blue eyes
and we know after this composition is complete
we’ll edit hours and words away, then make
love on the futon where our first son was created,
consummating our commitment beyond
death. Because we know about rogue planets,
string theories, and reverse engineering
from documentaries narrated by paid actors
that have never visited this land where Mormons
traced lines across the soil on their retreat
from persecution. This land where salvation comes
metered out in small doses—the sweat that beads
on our brows, works into our eyes as we pull
weeds from the garden where only spinach
and cilantro seem to thrive. Come Friday, I’ll make
the trip—the five hour drive—to pick up my kids,
then we’ll be a family again. Until Sunday.
Though my ex looms in the corner, like the pile of hair
in The Grudge, ever-present, encouraging
us to make mistakes, to lose focus
of what matters and what we possess:
these small moments, the seconds
between when you speak and I write.
Author Bio:
Jennifer J. Pruiett-Selby is a teacher and mother of four, with a Master’s in English from Iowa State University. Jennifer lives in very rural Iowa where her column {just a word} appears in the local newspaper, and has been published in Red River Review, Matter Monthly and Four and Twenty.
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