The trail rises, higher and higher.
A left foot lifts and slaps down,
bringing along a skyscraper of bones, stacked
helter skelter above its webbed base.
A right foot lifts, the skeleton rises and falls,
rotates, twists, strains upward, off balance
As a rickety shack, almost toppling,
But not quite.
At the summit, the bones settle to the ground,
elbows propped above raised knees, hands folded,
spine rests in a gentle curve, head tilts back. Still.
The past few months have been a blur of working with my critique group, getting feedback and editing my mystery—Focused on Murder.
There are still a number of steps until I’m published, so I can’t post a date yet, but I hope you’ll check it out when the time comes.
photo by Amanda Delsohn
My mother was a hummingbird.
Taking quick sips of coffee,
gesturing with child-size hands,
punctuating sentences with drags of an ever -present cigarette,
she darted in and out,
her thoughts flying past so quickly,
they’d disappear before you could grab one.
High strung, nervous was how slow minds
with lumbering bodies described her.
And all the while her wings danced circles around them
leaving behind microscopic feathers for calling cards.
I sense her sometimes now
as she darts into my atmosphere,
vibrating at the speed of light,
a different species on an alternate plane.
She hovers near me,
I reach out and hold her tiny body in my hand,
her speeding heart stills,
and we rest in each other.
Made up of two halves,
the heart is divided by the septum.
Where did the rift between us occur?
Left subclavian artery or aortic arch?
Perhaps the right atrium, always pulsing,
pumping out those feelings.
Or was it the oh so superior vena cava?
Most likely the inferior.
My inferior vena cava has always felt, well, inferior.
After all our history, your footprints
were all over my pericardium.
How could they not be
after confessing every heartbreak
every fear, every shameful secret?
And each triumph
when shared with you
more meaningful.
When you abandoned me
my left common carotid artery
bled out.
I was half a person
with half a heart.
I blame the septum.
Always divisive, controlling
what comes in and what goes out.
Published in Soul of the Narrator Anthology Vol. III, Fall 2012
Mixed Media
Linda Townsdin
I said goodbye to my old dog yesterday. We walked at least twice a day together for almost four years, until she couldn’t anymore. Native Americans use the phrase “walking on” when someone dies and I like to think that’s what she’s doing. The piece below is based on a prompt from my Friday writing group.
Following Dog
Arms pumping, iTunes pounding in my ears, I’m on my daily run through the neighborhood. Past the foreclosed house, past the homes that line Locust Street, where last week a flock of wild turkeys stopped traffic. I turn right onto Bellwood, trying to get a decent workout with New Year’s Eve champagne sloshing in my stomach, when a black dog stares at me from someone’s lawn. I wonder if the owners know it’s loose, but I don’t stop. I have my route to finish.
I turn a corner and the dog evaporates from my mind. Ten minutes later I’m rounding the cul de sac on Wildflower Way, my final stretch. I move to cross the street and trip over something. The black dog. It must have been on my heels for blocks. Creepy.
I feel along the grimy pink collar. No tags. I walk back to Bellwood and try every house on the street, but no takers. I don’t have the energy to continue knocking on doors.
She’s a lab or shepherd, maybe terrier mix, about forty pounds. White muzzle, half-moon scar on her side, an arrow-shaped one near it. Another on her leg. She whimpers and scratches at her right ear. I lift it to take a look and gag at the stench. I drop the ear to hide the infected mess inside.
I call the SPCA, but everything is closed on New Year’s Day, even the vet. Animal rescue says an old, sick dog won’t be kept more than forty-eight hours. I take her picture and post a found dog notice on craigslist and the newspaper and plaster the neighborhood with posters.
We go to the vet the next day. They name her Lucky. She also has abscessed teeth so we’re there a long time. The vet can’t believe a dog in that much pain could be so sweet-tempered. We head home with three kinds of meds.
No one claims her. Not that I would give her back to anyone who could let an animal suffer like that. She doesn’t bark. She doesn’t pay attention to other dogs except small white fluffy ones. She is infinitely patient with children. People pet her but she shows no interest.
We don’t know each other’s history. I don’t know how she got her scars and she doesn’t know how I got mine.
It’s New Year’s Day a year later and I’m running through the neighborhood with Lucky at my heels. She follows me, whether I sit at my desk, or walk to the kitchen or go to bed. She’s interested in my every move and grins when she sees me even after a short separation. Everyone says she is lucky to have found me, but they have it backward.
Linda Townsdin 