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FEBRUARY 2009 |
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You Are the Weeper and I Am the Grower
Weeping has never been useful except for those who do it well. But you know this, for you are the weeper and I
am the grower. Do you remember our trip to the Grande’s Groves and the picnic I made and how it fell into Big
River as we crossed? The look on your face made the baby cry. Then you took her away to the weeping place
because she was so good at it. That was when I began to grow my hair. Now it is long past my waist. I have no
joy for it anymore. You have made a career of your tears, a living off my locks. Soon you will come for me with
gleaming shears upheld. This time, I will not let you.
Queen Hibiscus
Sizzling raindrops steam on our upturned faces; sliding down slick trunks with their knees splayed open,
loin-clothed men cut coconuts from wet palm fronds. Gleaming machetes—juggled, caught—triumphantly slice through
drumbeats; throbbing echoes churn with the ocean’s surf as crashing waves recede from the surge of sultry,
animate bodies. We are water. We are the rock cliffs formed by years endured, made delicate by each other’s
pounding hips. We’re thrusting but never trusting, eager to offer all our eyes; we sigh as she struts on stage
and synchs her song with glistening lips and purple tongue that slips through ivory teeth and spirals into a
promise. Molly Gaudry co-edits Twelve Stories, solo-edits Willows Wept Review and Willows Wept Press, and is an associate editor at Keyhole Magazine. Her recent writings have appeared in Word Riot, Hobart, and Quick Fiction, among others. Find her here: mollygaudry.blogspot.com. |
