the summer files

“I’m sorry you feel that way” is a horrible, ugly thing to say. A person laying aside their precious pride and putting their naked feelings out there for you to see deserves a little more respect than evasive action. You aren’t sorry at all. You don’t even know what you’re talking about. You’re just backing yourself into a corner, waving around a dull kitchen knife to defend yourself. Sure, it’s effective, but it’s also fucking crazy.

A man cannot survive on honey alone.

And from these high-pitched soothing tones,

Thick and sweet, it clings to the insides of his ears

And ooze down the walls of his chest

To fill the cavity and slow the heart.

A man cannot survive on honey alone.

The wily ways of a woman,

To send him millions of miles into the heart of a sun,

And then millions more down into the subzero bowels of an ocean,

Which has no name.

Bee’s spit is no sustenance for a journeying man.

Following a saccharine scent,

Up one stem and down another

Only to find the petals withered,

            worn,

                        and crisp around the edges.

Woman, where is your netting-clad keeper?

A sturdy hat to keep her incessant buzzing out of his head,

A suit of the thickest canvas

Is needed to protect his fragile flesh from her nefarious sting.

Do not forget— his pain is her demise.

Despite her fortified behind,

And the discomfort she can inflict,

She is still too easily smeared into nothing more

Than a dusty streak of yellow and black

on a red tablecloth. 

I don’t lie about hating your new haircut,

Because—

I don’t know why.

I thought about lying.

Saying,

“Oh, it looks nice”

And, “Ahh, I really like it.”

And maybe even, “Darling, you’ve never looked so good.”

But the words stick in my mouth like rancid peanut butter.

Musty and bitter, I gag on the artificiality.

Your hair looks terrible, and I want you to know.

Flattery is a false currency,

And I’m not paying you a dime.

You’re surprised, I can tell.

I am 98% sure your feelings are very hurt,

But I am 100% sure the average rate of grass growth in

New Zealand

During the month of November

Is more interesting to me.

Instead, I say it reminds me of:

“a hastily sheared sheep, or a lion who’s mane was trimmed by a one-handed monkey, a frightened twelve-year-old boy, a frog with a buzz-cut, a dirty withered peach.”

You are shocked, I know.

You say, “What is wrong with you? That’s incredibly rude.”

“No, no it isn’t. I’m only being honest, dear.”

And I say that last word: dear

                                    That last word, dear

                                                            That last word,

                        like a bullet.

You look as angry as

A wet cat.

Success. Good night,

Dear. 

Salted fish smashed into a tiny tin can

On wheels

Foreign made

To last

Rusting hand-me-downs

Stain our palms

A tetanus stigmata

Of our pedigree

A blue collared mediocrity.

Shouting voices rise above

A pious bass

That threatens to

Shake our mode to pieces

Losing doors and windows and headlamps

We never wanted in the first place

Bags of water with painted faces

Questions are forbidden

Maps too

Because we’re going places,

            We’re going places. 

“I made a list of all the things I like about you.”

“You did? That’s so sweet! Aw, jeez, Margaret. I’m really flattered.”

“It wasn’t very long.”

“What?”

“The list I made. It wasn’t very long.”

“Well how ‘not very long’ are we talking here?”

“Two.”

“Two feet?”

“No. Two things.”

“Two things?!”

“Yes.”

“Well, what are they then? What are the only two things you like about me?”

“There’s no need to get emotional.”

“We’ve been married for four years, Margaret.”

“I know. I’ve been keeping count, too.”

“That’s just great. Come on, then. What are these two things? They must be pretty big things to like about a person.”

“You don’t mind doing the laundry. And I like that about you, Jim. “

“Oh, for God’s sake-“

“And you make delicious crab cakes.”

“Are you serious? Is this a joke?”

“They are really, really wonderful. Not too mushy. Really nice seasoning.”

“I get those premade from the grocery store.”

“You don’t!”

“Of course I do! They’re wrapped in plastic and have a price sticker on them!”

“I thought you were just trying to be fancy.”

“I love you! I love everything about you. We’ve been happily married for four, almost five years now! How can you not like me anymore?”

“I never said I didn’t like you anymore.”

“So you’re saying you never liked me at all?”

“Your words. Not mine.”

“Then why the hell did you say yes when I asked you to marry me?”

“I don’t recall ever saying yes.”

“Really? You don’t ever recall standing up in front of 300 people in a poufy white dress and saying ‘I do?’”

“I remember that part a bit. I never really said yes though.”

“This is insane. I’m married to an insane person.”

“I just kind of shrugged my shoulders, like ‘hm.’”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘hm, I should really think this one through first.’”

“Are you asking me for a divorce right now?”

“Oh my God, Jim. A divorce? Really, a divorce? I had no idea you were so unhappy.”

“I’m not the unhappy one! You’re the unhappy one! You only like one thing about me.”

“I snuggled with you last night, didn’t I? I even let you be the little spoon.”

“I hardly think spooning is solid evidence of a healthy relationship, lady.”

“You love being the little spoon.”

“I do love being the little spoon. But still! It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t spoon with just anyone.”

“Sometimes, the things you say- well, I think you can be downright abusive.”

“I’ve never laid a hand on you, Jim.”

“Abuse comes in many forms, Margaret.”

“Just because I told you that you looked pudgy in those jean shorts doesn’t mean I’m a verbally abusive wife. You asked me to be honest.”

“Well thanks for making me body conscious for the rest of my life! And yes, you did shake me really hard one time.”

“You were singing in your sleep and you wouldn’t shut the hell up. Something drastic had to be done. For everyone’s sake.”

“It really hurt. You could’ve caused frontal lobe damage.”

“No, I couldn’t have. Frontal lobe damage can only happen to people who have frontal lobes.”

“You’re an evil person. You know that? A really bad woman.”

“Well behaved women rarely make history.”

“Oh, clever. Quote a bumper sticker.”

“I just did.”

“And I would hardly consider the Glendale Gardeners’ Association Newsletter ‘history.’”

“Don’t you dare, Jim. You leave the Gardeners’ Association out of this.”

“Fine. I’m starving.”

“Me too. “

“Should I make dinner?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Does this mean you like me again?”

“What are you thinking of making for dinner?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

Margaret came around the other side of the small dining table and sat gently on Jim’s lap. She draped both arms around his neck and settled herself in against him. Tenderly turning his face away from hers, she brought her lips to his ears and whispered, “Crab cakes.”