After the Kiss

by Terra Elan McVoy

  —fifteen minutes before the after-church lunchers—

  and I can sit

  on the patio with her a minute,

  ask about last night.

  It is enough time even

  for her to show me her phone

  —the photos she took last night at the Lake House—

  and ruin my life

  forever.

  With Apologies to WCW

  so much depends upon

  the red (handed) cameraphone photo

  glazed with pain

  (of him) standing beside

  (with his mouth all over)

  the (creamy) white chick

  Numb

  At first a column of heat

  —a lava charge—

  bursts up from the tail end of my spine and

  rockets

  up to the top of my skull

  —fills my eyes—

  so that for a moment I can’t see and all I feel is

  heat.

  But it is the last thing I will feel—this fever wind—

  because after that I am ice:

  a white tundra of unmoving blank:

  a glacier only very slightly drifting

  —unaware of its own motion—

  across a dark and frozen sea.

  Fury

  Freya’s face is a fist,

  her frustration a force

  unfurled and frenzied—lashing

  against the redhead, my boyfriend,

  the entire (cheating) world.

  Coming from her each hate-filled word falls—

  one poisonously sour grape after the next,

  leaving a miserable, permanent stain

  on everything touched.

  Island of Relief

  After Freya leaves, the sorrow is a tidal wave,

  pounding me so hard it is difficult to see

  —strident tide smashing

  everything in sight.

  I am a drowned girl:

  lungs grabbing dark water,

  filling with—[seeking]—the source that will

  silence and bury.

  A pale hand plunges—grabs—

  and insists: rise.

  I am a gasping, sputtering face,

  looking for a life raft.

  Nadia is calm, cool, solid—

  an ivory island.

  In her comforting concern I will rest and think,

  gulp for air,

  try to breathe again.

  Helpful Advice

  Janayah’s left alone at the counter

  and I will get in trouble,

  but I don’t care I

  can’t breathe after all.

  Back in the kitchen Nadia

  holds me by the scruff of the neck,

  helping me stand,

  cleaning me up.

  I know it hurts, Nadia says calmly,

  but if he cheats, it’s over.

  Maybe not over for you

  but over for him

  and in that case it is just

  over for you both.

  Over like the last pizza crust.

  Over like hitting E with forty miles

  to the next fill-up.

  Over like a blackout.

  Over like an execution.

  Her face is still a new doll to me—something

  to admire but not yet fully know.

  But her voice is serious as the grave:

  concrete, set and poured.

  Break it off, she tells me,

  sounding like some Old Testament Bible verse

  about a right hand and its offense.

  You have no choice, she says.

  This girl usually so full of sunshine,

  now black clouds sweep across her brow.

  Against her finality my heart thuds, once.

  But around it my soul echoes empty,

  her words careening back and forth and back,

  ringing like truths.

  And Yet the Boss Wants Me to Smile

  My body is

  scarecrow scraps of hay held together

  by unshed tears.

  My voice

  a strangled crackle

  squeezed between imprisoned cries

  scratching my throat.

  The afternoon clock mocks

  —each slow second a shard lodged in skin.

  How can I ring up coffee

  as though it is important,

  when I can’t imagine anything

  being important

  again?

  Recipe for a Confrontation

  Begin with

  one hideous rumor,

  two awful photographs,

  and three cups of doubt.

  Stir in

  a difficulty nearly a whole week long

  and five phone calls today

  unreturned in a row.

  Throw in three dashes of insecurity,

  or more, to taste.

  Bring all this to a boil and then simmer,

  watching for the rime of bitter salts

  that will accumulate along the edge.

  When everything is the consistency

  of hard, suppressed tears,

  add, finally, his actual answering the phone,

  and one long—very long—and awkward pause.

  Gently combine an accusation,

  and three demands for an explanation.

  Wait for him to say something.

  And wait some more.

  Your crust will begin to brown,

  but do not open the oven too soon.

  Listen

  for the escape of steam from him

  —it will sound like a sigh—

  and his hesitant gurgle, Well . . .

  Only when everything

  is burnt beyond denial,

  and his explanations have boiled away, leaving

  half-baked apologies you don’t believe

  will you know

  for sure

  that you are done.

  Words I Never Thought I’d Say

  I’m finished with you.

  Don’t call me.

  I can’t believe you.

  I hate you.

  Don’t call me—ever.

  How could you—how could you.

  You are nothing special, and

  I don’t believe in you—never did.

  You are just like the rest of them.

  You are just like the rest of them.

  You are just like the rest of them.

  You are dead to me.

  Amputation

  My arm’s been lopped off.

  There it is

  on the floor

  not bleeding anymore but still

  bloody.

  It is an odd thing

  —cold—

  to look down and see a part of you

  there,

  but not where it’s supposed to be.

  I look around my room,

  see proof of

  what it was to have two arms:

  photos

  of both entwined around another;

  pillows

  held closely in sleep;

  scissors, pencils, dirty forks

  once deftly used with the now-gone hand;

  my closet full of

  shirts with two sleeves.

  It hurts too much not to have it;

  phantom pains.

  I pick up the knife

  —I will figure out how to use it right—

  begin cutting away at my heart.

  Falling on Deaf Ears

  Only a hour after

  ending everything, my phone rings and it is

  Alec’s number on the screen.

  All the things he might say,

  all the things I want him to say,

  all the things he can’t possibly say I

  don’t want to say anything:

  press my phone

  off.

  Surreality

 
Walking through a misting fog

  of bleakness all afternoon:

  somehow my body has moved itself

  from here

  to here

  —sleepwalking.

  A terrible dream

  only finally made real

  when Mom’s home-from-work hug surrounds me,

  asking,

  How was your day?

  Camille

  everyone is suddenly a lesbian

  it must’ve been reading all that gertrude stein, or the special focus on women’s history month, but innocent wednesday morning, and who suddenly made everyone a lesbian? first connor and autumn, apparently no longer just best friends but now hanging off each other and letting the sides of their hands grace the sides of their boobs so that everyone on the sidelines can see. then dorie admits loudly that she feels cold-shower funny every time she sees zooey deschanel in a magazine. next ellen—yes, ellen!—at lunch checks out daphne with different eyes, and when you get to your coffeehouse there are two girls tonguing each other on the front couch plain as day. you are trying to be cool about it—what do you care; you lived in san francisco you love lesbians you’re sure your cousin is one—but today you can’t help but wonder with the sky so low and the humidity getting turned up, the baseball players suddenly leaving the field empty just like your inbox—you wonder if the cosmos isn’t just screaming for you to turn sappholesbo too.

  mystery mail #3

  it takes four days after its arrival for you to finally look at it: lacy victorian thing showing a gray furry kitten wearing a pink satin bow. someone has sprayed it with rose perfume. where are you, kitten? in green pen is the only thing scrawled on the back. you know without looking—the postmark’s from chicago.

  unwanted memory #3: first date

  it was one of your only real dates—not like those afternoons when you hung around the art institute waiting for his shift to end so you could walk around together, or when he simply managed to “run in to you” while you read and did homework at ruby’s after school. for this one he took the elevator and rang your doorbell. for this one he had flowers. you weren’t sure if it was weird for him to meet your parents, or if that’s what was supposed to happen. you hadn’t really had boyfriends before—only boys—and weren’t sure you wanted one—only wanted him—so you had to just take your cues from him, from mom and dad. you had your hair down for once. you were wearing a dress. and sure when you came into the living room, when your mom lifted her smile to you like that, you felt a little like there should be a live studio audience breaking into applause. but he shook hands with your father and you knew you’d never seen someone more handsome. you were blushing all over your body and you noted to yourself even then how you could feel the glow of your heart moving at the edges of your skin. it was scary and it was wonderful and he took your hand right in front of them and you followed him down the hall. how it turned into this you couldn’t remember—him talking to you, you talking to him—it simply turned and there you were, golden and falling. dinner. candles. his straight teeth. your nervous giggle. when you got home mom had arranged the flowers he brought—lilies—in a vase and put them on your dresser. you lay on top of the covers still in your clothes. you put your hands over your swirling heart and inhaled deeply. you almost fainted from the dizzy perfume.

  disappearing act

  it’s not like you’d established a pattern. but having someone who was maybe really here in the same town as you had definitely demonstrated its appeal. the catcher wrote you, you thanked him, he sent you something funny, you sent him something funny back. you wanted to keep it simple and light, and that’s what it was. you wanted to be able to just see where it went, and that seemed to be how it was going. but then there was that moment on the deck, that moment you went blind and he was seeing for the both of you, guiding you to a place you didn’t want to go and yet weren’t ready to turn back from, where everything was deadly still and yet dizzily swirling at the same time. and you felt like it was different, but it could still be clean. so you thought by now he would say something about it, but instead there’s this weird dirty silence you don’t understand. you’re trying not to care but find yourself caring—checking your inbox, looking for footprints in the sand, traces of presence, overturning stones where there’s nothing underneath. each time, nothing. and it brings a kind of crazy feeling back in you, this feeling of searching. you feel your skin crawling. you feel yourself starting to pace.

  lopsided bowls

  like you’re in kindergarten or seventh grade, mom’s picking you up after school and won’t tell you where you’re going. ellen’s kicking around, waiting with you, wearing friday drifty eyes and smiling into the sunshine, so when mom arrives and ellen bounces up to her, suddenly it’s a mommy-daughter-friend date and you’re hoping mom’s not going to embarrass you. ellen’s chattering away like they’re old pals and you are astonished how always-easy she is, like luli, this immediate affection between them and everyone else. you drive through decatur, past the farmer’s market, turning down some side street with a bunch of warehouses and who-knows-where. she stops at mudfire and ellen squeals, i love this place, and your mom’s smile is a daffodil, yellowing the both of you. inside there are flats of clay, unattended wheels, the smell of wet stone and a kind, small woman who’s glad to see you all. ellen knows what she’s doing, sets to work already, but you and mom need a tutorial, need some help. an hour later and your thigh is cramped your hands are gunked and you’ve got a lopsided bowl that would spill anything that you put inside. ellen’s draped over mom’s shoulder, guiding her hands, steering the clay, and they’re both laughing and comfortable, working together. you see luli again superimposed over ellen, what better daughters they make for your so-eager mother: sisters of fun. their vases are tall and straight and perfect for peonies. yours still don’t get it, are all still crumpled and squashed.

  m.i.a.

  another saturday night and you swim around for a while—float, really—talking to ellen and some new boy eric, some group of his friends, some kids from another private school whose names you don’t know but seem they’d be the kind found on gravestones buried in the woods somewhere: somewhere near a secret pool, with mossy rocks and shadows. you are by the bonfire, you are back inside, you are hovering near the keg, you are dancing with a boy with chocolate skin whom you’ve never seen before now. you are not in a hurry and you are not anxious (he is always here; he always is), until it’s after twelve thirty and you haven’t seen him yet. you look good—you made sure to even though he’s said (how can he have said) nothing—and even willow says so. one o’clock, one thirty and you’re moving in circles: foyer-hallway-dining room. kitchen-living room-den. the back deck is empty now (he is always here; he didn’t say he wouldn’t be here; how could he not be here), the bonfire is dying, and you know people have paired off and all the bedrooms are full. he didn’t say he’d be here, but he didn’t say he wouldn’t (he didn’t say anything), and now you’re getting self-conscious, are aware of the strain in your neck. you are actively looking now, and you look stupid. you are hanging too close to the front door. you are listening for cars. you are watching for a boy who won’t come.

  provincial

  three days cooped up in school-friend-home routine and you want to be going somewhere, no matter where you’re going. while mom and dad are happycontentpleasedandsmiling with the miraculously green lawns here—the vast space the quieter neighborhoods—you feel like a tiger in a cage, pacing always pacing. no matter how far you walk, where you’re going is nowhere. or at least nowhere you want to stay for very long. there are the shops in va-hi there is piedmont park there are places along ponce but after you’ve made those trips once or twice there is no more to it and no interesting way back. your feet-knees-ankles-elbows-brain all ache for the feeling that no matter where you’re going you’re always going to end up somewhere. even business blocks would have a new coffeehouse or bookstore or little café you’d never seen befo
re, or at least a warehouse with some challenging graffiti. now the restlessness is starting to define you—not just in your brain but in your body, in your teeth. your atlanta friends don’t understand—they’ve used the same routes and seen the same signs; they think moving two states is a big deal, think trading hookups every other weekend is exotic. and you can’t blame them. they grew up here they know here this is home to them—it’s the way things should be. they don’t understand why, when there’s a moving sidewalk at the airport, you will always take it, because it means you will get to the next point that much faster—you will see the new thing first you will be there you will not be stuck behind anyone you will be moving; you will get ahead.

  and there are couples like that everywhere

  the puppies are tired of being cooped up too and with the weather maybe-warming and the sky not as dark early, you ask lily if it’s okay to let all of them out a half hour longer. even when she smiles she has that frown between her brows but you are a hard worker and do things without being asked so she agrees it’s probably not a bad idea. everyone is happy-mouth-tails-eyes once they get outside and you are chasing a few of them near the back of the yard when lily comes out and you think at first she’s changed her mind, but then you see she is with a young couple and they are heading straight for the long-legged half-collie mutt girl with the patches of brown on her slender face. lily has a leash and she clips one end to the collar gives the other to the man (he is towering over his blond wife—from here he looks eight feet tall) and the four of them go inside and you know the papers they will be filling out, the questions lily will be answering, and you watch the other dogs playing and running as though nothing has happened and you think to yourself, huh. just like that.

  springing

  back in chicago they’re all hunched against slicing winds, wearing layers of fleece and re-waterproofing their boots, while you and mom are in shorts and t-shirts, light hoodie jackets, heading over to the park to play a few rounds of tennis friday after school. there are things starting to bud here, flowers about to explode, and you have heard about the southland in the springtime but you still are not fully prepared for this, still find it odd when girls are wearing skirts to school. at the park everyone has got the same idea—the first sunny weekend of the season—even a few girls in bikini tops, sunning themselves on towels. it will get cold again (you can feel it in the breeze)—and people (boys) will still find a way to disappear—but for now it is beautiful and brilliant. for now it feels good to open the windows, to think a familiar face might round the corner and smile at you, might leave a tulip on your front porch, might stick around for a week. for now you are open to any and all of it, for now you want to let the sun in, stretch your muscles, empty your brain and air yourself out.