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Stay.

I imagine bending over backward, my body like a wet olive leaf, until just my feet and ankles and calves are upright. Until my hands touch the hot earth, and my eyes see the world turned around, upside down. I imagine his words flying right above me, across the space my torso just was. So they miss me -- no contact. "Stay." No contact. Instead I'm silent. What do you say to that? Yes, I'll stay. Of course, you're in charge here, you say you want me here, I'll be here. Instead I'm silent. Silent as I walk to our door, a hole in our earthen wall, and silent as I choose the pomegranates and onions in the cacophony of the bazaar. Silent as I keep walking from the bazaar and as I reach my lady's house. Silent as she lets me in and makes the phone calls. Silent as I board the bus, as I see that little brown head, not yet two weeks. Not yet mine. Silent as I shiver, silent as I wipe my face, silent as my vision blurs then clears, then blurs again. ...
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Speckled

Speckled There was bright light in a small garden, and shade beneath a few trees. A small nun sat speckled dark and light, on a bench beneath a tree, space on all sides of her. Soon a taller nun joined her. Here they sat outside of the sun, knees almost touching. Their faces were plain, unassuming. They looked the same. Anonymous under black robes and wimples. ‘It’s God’s gift to us.’ The taller nun shifted her wimple, showing dark hair that framed the white of her face. Dark circle around light. She moved closer to the small nun. Their feet touched. Their knees. Their shoulders. Their bodies angled together. Heat rose to pale cheeks, marking them both. ‘A gift, or a test? ’ She paused, then, ‘If Mary knew-‘ ‘Mary won’t.’ ‘She’s the head.’ ‘God’s the head.’ ‘That isn’t any better for us.’ The color slipping away, then, softly, from beneath curled shoulders, ‘It’s not natural. This is not natural. We. are not natural.’ ‘No. God always has chosen special people. The Israelites, the Apost...
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Teeth

I picture her sucking one of those cold, red toned fingertips into her square mouth, the tip hitting her straight white teeth, pulling it out and wiping a smudge of ink off my temple. Her name is Margaret, and she's 45 years old, possibly older. A strong woman, a professor, feeding us knowledge like apples. “Hello Emily.” Margaret's stopped between the music and sociology building to say hello to me. Straight bones lined up from hips to her collarbone, and just one more reason I feel so oddly unlike myself when she's near. Are those bones lined up so straightly or is that just the impression from such upright posture? “Hi Margaret.” Oh god, I should just have called her professor, I think, but I want her to step closer with that healthy looking body and those heavy black clogs. “Are you enjoying this beautiful weather?” Who else says that, ‘this beautiful weather?’ I know, of course, my mother. I feel sad that Margaret had to ask the first question. Yet I love it. It...
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