a dry martini,
a dessert in the desert,
like tears never shed.
“They say the fabric ripped down the middle at the moment he died.”
“The sacrifice had been made. We were now invited to God’s house.”
“You’ll be cursed if you sew the hole.”
“You’ll be blessed if you touch the divine shreds.”
“I don’t know any of this. But, I can sew. My child is sick. I need the money.”
“What was it like to touch the veil?”
“It felt like any other thick curtain needing mending. Until, I finished. A wave of despair fell over me. As if God had turned from me or had hid himself. What could I do? I am a seamstress not a priestess. Do you think I will be forgiven for undoing what God has done? Can we ever undo God’s work?”
Greetings! I am a program director of The Wise Channel, a fledgling youtube channel for and by people over 50. We are on twitter @thewisechannel. We have a facebook page under The Wise Channel. And, we have a blog thewisechannel.wordpress.com. This month we are doing Valentine Day shout outs, civil rights stories, and behind-the-scenes footage. If you would like to participate, please email email@example.com. Please check us out! Cheers! Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh
When I escaped,
you were too hot for touching
and would not run with me.
So, I left you.
Now, you are a burnt skeleton
leaning against a dusty table.
You still hold last night’s flame
in your blackened wreckage.
You smell of fall’s flamed leaves–
savory, smoky dying.
Intoxicating bone death.
i am a slow, city driver who does not parallel park.
she is a fast talker who needs a ride.
we have eight minutes to go to a place twelve minutes away.
she asks, “do you go on the interstate?”
my enlarged heart jumps behind my larynx,
and i whisper, “i guess we are now.”
i turn right and shoot forward
not knowing the limit
savoring the feeling of limitlessness.
i crouch in my seat looking in my blind spots
pushing 64 on 64.
The winds rip a scream from my throat and bounce it out to the steep valley.
You, brave one, slowly slide to the mountain’s edge bracing the beating breezes.
I grab your jacket from the back hoping to save you from being blown away.
You take your Blue Ridge panorama in and withdraw to smoke.
Sober, I am no longer a hero’s hand and am just a fan who touched your coat.
my towel, drenched in blood and sweat,
i will never throw.
my dirtiest enemies are within.
i find invading enemies in my gift horses’s mouths.
thought weak, i strike with kindness.