Phoebe Wilcox
Laundromat Tangled arms and legs, They flop around. Headless necks On tumble dry low. Slow. Outside someone painted Trompe-l'oeil Underwear. It looks just like A real g-string On the step. Repetition. Monotony. Stainless steel eyes, Sleepy. If you could have a Different skin A plaid Or striped Skin, Which would it be? Where am I? Do I spin in and out Of the arm of your t-shirt? Do I soften your socks? As you step out the door And over the Trompe l'oeil Of my heart, Do you think I'm real? Babes in the Woods 1. O, it's getting dark. O, you did give me a start. I am lost. Lost in these lustful woods, in an Eden of exotic fruit. How did I end up here? I could be anywhere. This could be anywhere, or anyplace, or anytime. It's arrived with punctual fatality, the blending of the heart and body to be taken lightly in the gloaming. Or not. Shedding feelings and former selves like old skin, there are wolves, werewolves even, prowling the woods, hunting with soft fur and lean souls. A game of stealing, a playful peeling of the restless cloak from shoulders that simply must be seen. A sojourn into duplicity will gently take hands and trust with sheepish smiles before changing, rending, tearing. A heart is flimsy flesh. What will one do with this torn organ in years to come? 2. One day you may find yourself in this place too, in the seductive lair of his mannerisms, admiring the golden moons of his eyes, your feeling equaling his as you toss the bothersome cloak into the leaves, and leap astride him, fists buried in brindled fur, fingertips aflame. Do no mathematics of regret, simple passion may not tether a wolf for long. A changeling moon like this one may burn whatever delicate beds and blankets of hope you weave. Take care. Take care. Take care, my sweet. As you embark on that root-swollen path, with dreamy pinpointed precision, the same as so many hungry, thirsty, lonesome girls gone before you through the woods to womanhood. Conversation on a Train Don't worry. The fire crackers under your seat are not going to explode, the conductor assures me. The fact that they are there feels like sandpaper, I reply. Scratching out secrets on the backs of my feet, I feel their ticklish fuses, and my response is like Dr. Scholl's or some kind of plush nude-colored nonsensical drug store corporate money-making scheme of a feeling that I walk on all day as I walk on. But remember, you're not walking, you're on a train, he says. But these plush feelings, they tend to render me helpless until I remember where I am and reorganize myself for the world, Censored, censured, wrapped up right. You see what I show you now and then. I think, I tell him, the fire crackers under the seat are not lit fire crackers like sand paper grating the sun into little pieces, sunny e-mails I reserve for my mother that address what I show her now and then. Crackers hit the water under the trestle and the fire rides the backs of fish. My feelings pamper themselves by feeling they're unique feelings, but I know they're not. I know people everywhere are dodging everything, walking down lit sidewalks clothed in brown paper bag pretensions. But you're on a train, I am and so are you, he says. But you wear that special hat and I don't have one, I reply. You can borrow it for a little while, he says. Don't kick me off the train, I say, that haughty man in France, I swear I will spit on the next person who ever throws me off a train. With sandpaper and plush feelings such as yours, you're a real honest-to-goodness passenger, he says. I like your lit fuses and your paper bags and your soft soles. I won't kick you off the train. I understand, I understand. Take this bag off me and give me your hat. I'll ride this damn train to the bowels of hell if I can just tell one nasty person for once what I really think of them. I want that hat, okay? Baggage, baggage, baggage claim. I have plenty in cargo. I don't travel light. Not ethereal. Not way up. Not way light. But lit, that's me. Sand paper. Fire crackers. Soft soles. Racing thoughts, racing away from the racetrack of convention. But I know you understand I can tell by the way you let me ride free and give me your hat kindly relinquishing your power on this ride. My feelings pamper themselves that my baggage is special that your hat is special that this train is special and that we are all going someplace that is not completely illusory. Phoebe Wilcox lives in eastern Pennsylvania .
Her novel, Angels Carry the Sun is pending publication with Lilly
Press, and an excerpt from a second novel, Flower Symbolism for
Dummies, has been published in “Wild Violet.” Recent and forthcoming
work may be found in “Sixers Review,” “Bartleby-Snopes,” “A cappella
Zoo,” “Glossolalia,” “The Chaffey Review,” “Calliope Nerve” and many
others. Her stories have twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Website: www.phoebewilcox.com.
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