Three POems
Held Together with Yellow Tape
She was an elementary school teacher who would let people yell at her. So we meet again in the shop that has clay tiles, chalkboard menus, and chess games. My old oboe teacher with the nickel-plated keys. Cracks in wood.
She likes stories with happy endings, this blonde woman who was my adopted aunt. Lessons in the house where books lined the walls and were stacked in the bathroom. She enjoys the occasional murder mystery. Crooked trees and poisoned green bean casseroles. Her preacher husband learned Icelandic from children’s books.
She handed me a book about drugs, journalism, and sex. If you’re going into music, men in that business might try to teach you lessons that aren’t about music.
I am doing well these days, though it is a winter of papercut knuckles. My new life of rolled-up papers and inky fingers. Like that busted piano in the corner of this shop. Doesn’t matter how out of tune the piano is or how many keys are missing. I’ll make music out of it.
I’ve made friends who have knitted mittens, green coats, mustard gloves, and blue scarves. A whole new wardrobe my last year of undergrad.
And you’ll lose them all. I don't remember what I said after that.
New Life Form
Filling up at the gas station, arms folded as I watch the gauge. Exhale, keep one foot on earth. A voice calls my name. A grinning head peeks from behind the corner. Baseball cap and acne scars. Last time I saw him, he served me coffee. His hand lingered on my mug. Inhale cigarette smoke and car exhaust.
You were a regular, I wanted to know your name. It was so pretty.
I bite my tongue. He quit the coffee shop and is going to be a trucker. Is my pump still going?
Hey, would you like to hang out sometime? Sure, I said without thinking. I want your number now. I give it to him, then drive away. He texts already. My hands tighten the wheel.
I don’t want to date him. Waiting to hear the phone ding. Is that his car? The dented blue one with the foggy windows? Is he a stalker, rapist, murderer? In which order will he proceed? A hand on my shoulder, not least his silhouette.
Go someplace public. You have to start dating. Mom, I can’t. There is no hope for you. He knows my name.
Has he taken advantage of shattered windows? Bitch. Slut. I’m going to find you. A single letter seeks someone to complete him. I imagine him battering the facade. Is this how my story ends?
I am not a sentence fragment. I am infinitely other than you.
He Didn’t Like My Smiling
Let’s call him Francis. I didn’t know he was French. He arrived early to his interview, the president of the fraternity, to talk about a dead professor and the event soon to be held in his honor.
We had long nights of discussions. I could not make him stop talking. Francis didn’t look away. I almost laughed when he said chemistry. Kept talking and talking, his voice cracking. I didn’t lose hope until I heard. I thought he would make it. He had tears in his eyes.
I couldn’t stop grinning, my lips bunched together. He was more than pretty. His accent, not blowing kisses on an autumn day in Paris. He was somebody who kicked beer cans and spoke of dead fish and motor oil. Somebody right next to me, elbows on the table. He wore a French Quarter baseball cap. The color I don’t remember.
Now here comes the sad part. He had a girlfriend. My stomach fell. Where is the ambient guitar music coming from?
Polaroid pictures strung with bistro lights at the dorm. Off-the-shoulder, bangle bracelets, kiss on the cheek. The sorority bitch? The no-effort-needed bitch? Wears a beanie to look hip but will provide a one-star review if her coffee didn’t have soy milk in it? Is that what it takes to get a rose?
No more questions. Back into the world where sunshine skates on asphalt.
Aura Martin
Aura Martin graduated from Truman State University with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. She is the author of the micro-chapbook “Thumbprint Lizards” (Maverick Duck Press). Her recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Buddy, Capulet Mag, and Tule Review, among others. In Aura’s free time, she likes to run and take road trips.
Twitter: @instamartin17