FROM THE SIDELINES…
there are things i don’t mean to notice, but do
an almost-man’s seedy, vulpine smile
emboldened by vodka & sprite
t-shirt gummed to his chest with pasty sweat
and you, strapped to his side
by a thick, inconsiderate arm
so your feet tug when he drags you,
the plastic of your vans warps
against murky, beer-clouded floors
that slosh and plunge like swampy earth
capsize into splintered waves
he’s laughing,
but you’re not.
your face is that of a seasick sailor
febrile, sinking, slackened, damp
and from within a stained curb-found couch
i see this…
and shrink
between the two of you and me
is a layer, tenuous and gauzy
it is an art exhibit’s glass,
with wax figures posed behind, pink lips painted on
it is crime scene tape, warning:
this evidence is not to be tampered with
it is a “don’t walk” sign,
with a red blinking hand insisting “wait”
it is a news story,
tomorrow’s unalterable headline
it is a paused movie,
characters suspended, subtitles stuck
it is the absurd platitudes at my great uncle’s
death bed, promising “it’ll be okay” on life support
it is good old midwestern denial,
enclosed in saran wrap, only visible
by the glare of the booming pink light
still fragile enough that i could’ve
brandished a nail and pierced right through
told him to f*** off and helped you
because no amount of metaphor acquits me from the truth.
HOW THINGS WORK (WITHOUT YOU)
lemon-colored tulips
drown in their crystal vase
contained by a crisp
of bleak sunlight
the tea kettle
deadpans on the stove
the table’s been licked
free from crumbs
by an old rag’s
scratchy tongue
but she sits alone
at the counter
elbows braced
head slumped
in crinkle-cookie hands
like this is the bitter
aftertaste of “better half”
her body is pitched,
missing a few ribs,
hearing the phantom ring
of mundane conversation
oh, how even his chapped lips
crackling into a smile
would gleam
in this kitchen’s deadly serene
she drums her pen
on a list of to-dos
that haunt
in his absence
call the plumber,
change the oil,
check the furnace,
learn how to fall asleep
without the sound
of his cpap machine
she dials the phone,
forgets to breathe,
after all this time, pleading
“i don’t want to know
how things work
when it’s just me.”
Biographical Note: Stella Mehlhoff is a freshman at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys creating theatre, doing yoga, appreciating other people’s art, and learning new things from her friends.