Go.

I am a fish.

A great, big yellow pike. Eyeshine mirroring the glint of light falling in slow layers below the surface of ink dark water, I am gills and fins and olive gold scales.

I am slicked by a current carrying me along shallow shore lines, just out of reach of your lure. Unaware of my own cold heart, I am an ectothermic experiment in love and loss.

I am a fish.

A ripe pink salmon, dorsal fin flapping the wisdom of rivers and oceans, intuitively defying death by defying life: a refusal to spawn to die.

I am a last meal on the river Boyne, escaping punishment by frustratingly swimming upstream, but suffering the consequence of a tapered tail by the hand of Thor.

I am a fish.

One half a pair of shining gold fish, I lap the shores of happiness caught inside the reflection of a glass bowl, an endless cyclic swim taunting freedom just the other side.

I am a fish.

The intuitive minnow slipping in and out of your dream current.

I am a fish.

Ichthus. Matsya. Ea. Aphrodite escaping Typhon. The spawn of Mangala. Divine Mother granting you fertility. Fionn mac Cumhaill, giver of knowledge.

I am a fish.

xoxo
M.L. H’art

Gretel Says.

The receiver smashed into plastic cradle, a resounding silence filling the space inside my ear where your voice sat only a moment ago, I say: “Please don’t.”

Ringing with the echo of all the things I left behind when I asked you to leave such a long time ago, my ears begin to burn: a red hot awkwardness crawling in through the canal, kicking at the drum, slipping down the tube into my throat until my tongue smacks of your tinny aftertaste. Trying to defend myself to walls staring blankly at me, I say: “It was nothing. It meant nothing.”

Stomping my feet, I am surprised by the protein-crack of eggshells, the same ones I tiptoed over when you raised your voice too loud. To compensate for all the noise, I whisper: “Shh, you don’t understand.”

Between the accusation and the unforgiveness, you didn’t leave much time for me to tell you: “I can explain!” Between the distrust and suspect, you didn’t leave much time for me to say: “I came back because I thought I loved you.”

Staring straight ahead, pinpoint eyes glazed with the familiar slick of liberally slathered guilt, I am leading down the same path where I’ve already dropped a line of homeward bound crumbs. “It’s all so familiar,” I muse.

But the me I met when I left you, the me you decided wasn’t for you, she’s kicking at my gut, raising her voice, punching my throat – quick jabs bringing out indistinguishable sounds: a groan, a growl, a bark.

The me I met when I left you, she’s holding a road map. On the map, there’s a clearly defined line. The line? It’s leading me in the opposite direction of you.

The me I met, she says: “This isn’t about you.”

xoxo,
M.L. H’art

The Backseat of Summer.

Sitting in the backseat of a long-ago summer, you turn to me and say: Do you believe in the universe?

Squinting bright-sky reddened eyes, sunlight strands falling across tanned cheeks, I reply: The sun, the moon, the stars? Our planet in relation to all those things? The entirety of space and time? Matter, energy, momentum? Or are we waxing philosophical about the cosmic exchange of energy between us and the greater power of mother Universe?

Fingering the hemline of lake-wet shorts, the Velcro holding them tight to your hips a scratching crinkle as you adjust the towel under the damp imprint of your bum: Yeah, that.

Sure, I believe: I say. Pushing too big sunglasses up the bridge of my nose, I wonder for a minute if I look cool or just plain ridiculous pretending I’m rockstar-worthy on a small town beach in the middle of the prairies as nowhere kids roll by on rusted cruiser bikes, towels slung over sunkissed shoulders. I don’t care, and so instead I push up the glasses and push out the thought.

Tilting your wet-dog head back on the seat, looking up at the pearl blue sky, you ask: You think if I asked for something, the universe would listen? A sigh escaping on the tail end of your question, lingering like cigarette smoke just above the crowns of our heads.

Sucking in your letters with stale air from inside the car, I say: I could listen.

Rolling onto your side, slipping long legs under the driver seat, your hands fall to the cracked pleather seats and you pick, pick, pick at the trim with chewed stub nails, letting loose beads of crumbling foam. You say: Yeah, you could.

Smacking the seat, a fake plastic thwack, you grumble: I guess, I just don’t know.

Counting cotton clouds through the smudges on the backseat window, I ask: Don’t know what, hm? Smearing the noseprints and fingerprints and foodprints, I look at you in the reflection of my window.

Reaching for my hand, your finger a light tickle tracing life lines on my palm, you pause, you say: How to feel about today, I don’t know about it.

Scrunching lips, a sour pucker of disbelief: It’s been fun, we’ve had fun, right? I ask, the concerned crease in my forehead deepening.

Yes, yes: a nod quick and sharp. You say: We’ve had fun, this is fun. A double back repetition of my words in your mouth.

So, then, the problem? I pose to you as I watch the family on the beach, dad and son in the water, mom lying on the sand crusted blanket piled high with forgotten buckets and shovels and inflatable floaties – a well practiced ritual for the family who’s here every weekend, the taunt of going to the lake losing its lustre when it’s the same every time.

Folding forward the driver’s seat you kick open the door with a bare foot, grass caught between toes dusted brown with still-wet sand as you lower shoulders under the gray frayed seat belt pulled taught as a trip wire. You say: This fun, I don’t want it to end.

You’re gone, running through the parking lot, over the grass littered with families and friends and squished pop bottles and crumpled chip bags, your lean gait a great splash in the lake as you disappear into a pool of people and gently lapping waves.

Me neither, I say as I lay back on the seat, my head resting in the wet warmth where your towel still sticks to the backseat of the summer I won’t ever forget.

xoxo
M.L. H’art

Spreekt U.

Passing me on the street, the man, he asks me: Spreekt u het Nederlands?

Caught off guard, choking up my words: Oh, uh, no. I’m sorry.

A hand on my shoulder, he stops me: Kunt u alstublieft mij vertellen waar een honderd en tiende straat is?

He is red. Red pants, red shirt, red face – a full up thermometer taking the downtown temperature of passersby.

With more force: Een honderd en tiende straat.

Polite affirmation, flicking his strange hand from my coated shoulder: I’m sorry sir, but I don’t understand what you’re saying.

Agitation, a hand covering wayward eyebrows, pausing as he swipes a palm over his greying beard; a giant, anxious sigh: Geen begrijpt u niet.

Me, desperately looking for help in the faces of others, shrugging when they can’t: Are you looking for a business?

Shaking his head, a downtrodden look, frustrated he says: Ik kijk voor een bijzondere zaken. Een honderd en tiende straat.

Parroting his words, I am the puppet and he the ventriloquist: Ti-end strat? Ti-end strat.

The words, they roll around my tongue, smooth rocks slick with saliva. I get a feel for the letters: Tenth street? Are you looking for tenth street?

Flashing my palms, a wide open gesture, I count to ten like I did when I was a little girl – slowly, pointing to each finger, saying subsequent numbers louder and louder.

Nodding my head: Tenth street? Yes?

Confused eyebrows rumpled, a deep v of concern pinched tight between small mouse eyes: Kunt u alstublieft mij helpen? Een honderd en tiende straat. Ja? U hoort niet mij.

I throw my white flag in the air – hands palm up to the dark night sky, a show of surrender : I’m so sorry, I just don’t know what you’re saying. I wish I could help you.

The v relaxing, his eyes lighting up: Vergeet het, onnozele meisje.

The despair of failure, my mouth a half moon smile: I’m really sorry. I hope you find wherever it is you’re going.

A laugh erupting from his lean frame as he pats my shoulder, pushing off down the street: Ah, don’t worry about it. I’m just fucking with you!

xoxo

M.L. H’art

Quick Click.

I remember the conversation: the words a short synaptic trip back in time to the day you told me you’d never forget.

“I’ll remember this forever,” you said confidently. “I won’t ever forget,” the promise sealed with a kiss on the cheek and a big bear hug pulling my slim shoulders in close to your chest.

Four short weeks later (one month; seven hundred and thirty hours; forty-three thousand, eight hundred and twenty nine minutes) you forced yourself to forget.

With one quick click.

One quick click, and you throw down a devastating roadblock to stop the electronic transmission between experience and cyber-memory. One quick click and I’m gone; emotional dissatisfaction easily erased in the age of instant information. No need to admit I existed if, and suddenly, the continuum of time shared is no longer necessary to the history of where I’ve been or where you’re headed. By deleting the pain, the truth buries its head deep in the dark sands of the Hippocampic Ocean, leagues out of reach.

And you carry on.

But, the psyche of truth is a species of super-order easily awaken: perfectly evolved, this cartilaginous wet fish splashes about the brain slapping up waves, sending the memory of us spiralling for shore on the crest of thoughts pushed too far down.

The shore is near, but the tide is strong and we’re carried right back out to sea: the ocean’s plaything, a yo-yo of back and forth, forth and back.

This fish, this shark, sinks razor sharp teeth into the soft pink flesh of humility: just when we pat ourselves on the back for being so mature, for handling awkwardness with such poise, for finally growing up, we rightly lose life blood for tempting the temper of Mother Nature’s osmoregulatory balance between you, me, experience, life.

We throw it all out of whack.

When the clouds part and the seas calm, the shark swims back to the depths of dark ocean; the wreckage still sticks to the shore – a broken toothed smile reminiscent of happier times, now shadowed with decaying holes.

Just like that: one quick click and I’m gone.

xoxo
M.L. H’art

Wordplay, Foreplay.

Slipping the strap off her shoulder, wet lips to soft skin: the synecdoche of romanticism a display in parts; button unhinged, zipper widened, clasp unleashed, sock slid low.

More, she whispers. I want more.

The romantic repetition a well-practiced dance, the tick-tock of hands from small of back to upper thigh to backside, the pleasure of rote motor memory serving base instinct.

She sighs. He stops.

Together, they wait; the awkward air of unease seeps in under the slit of the closed bedroom door, filtering through dirty windows on shaded moonlight.

Tugging on the sleeve of how things used to be, she looks up at his sad moon face and says: I know you meant well.

He starts to talk, a stammering trip of words he had little time to rehearse before the big performance.

Kicking at the regret of yesterday, she turns her back and says: You’ve said it all before, in a million different ways.

He reaches for her, a hesitant longing actualized by the shake of his fingers as he brushes her back, leaving fingerprints of where he’s been, where he’ll miss most.

Smoothing the wrinkles of painful memory, she shouts: Why did you listen when I told you stop?

Folding up the fabric of a forgotten yesterday, he picks up his pride, smoothes his shirt over the thumping beat of a weak heart, cups shaking hands over hot ears and says: I didn’t hear you. Didn’t hear what you said. How could I have heard you over all this noise?

xoxo

M.L. H’art

Puzzled.

Pieces of me – a strand of hair, a chewed nail, a flake of dried skin, an eyelash – lay tangled in the bedclothes; hair, nail, skin, eyelash: the combined pieces of traits – crooked smile, loud laugh, ticklish tummy, combination skin; added up, the product of quirks – fear of abandonment, quest for perfection, critical self analysis, a twitch, twitch, twitch of nervousness when words don’t come out the way they ought; quirks bequest damages – broken heart, overexertion, self doubt, self medication, detachment; pieces, traits, quirks, damages designed to fit together, a puzzle of muddled intentions left sitting on the kitchen table waiting to be realized, the corner pieces slotted into one another – an illusion of frame and direction – a mess of smaller and smaller sections, floating answers to an impossible riddle, all similar shades but different enough to seem as though these pieces just don’t fit: ”Sorry,” you holler as you rush out the door, “I’ll finish it later.”

xoxo

M.L. H’art