Susan Tepper is co-author of the novel “What May Have Been: Letters of Jackson Pollock & Dori G” (with Gary Percesepe)
released in January by Cervena Barva Press, the collection “Deer & Other Stories” (Wilderness House Press, 2009) and the poetry chapbook “Blue Edge.”
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Um-hm
Two, there, four times a day he phones you, says, do it for me, do this, wouldja, wouldja, can you help me out here? You say I have to wash my hair. You say it’s all knotty from the natural look, those natural products bought at the Farmers Market. The shampoo in the green bottle that smells like mint and the mint leave-on conditioner. He doesn’t hear any of it, he’s breathing heavy into the phone, his needs and all that. Well, shit! This guy wants to suck your marrow. Um-hm. That’s what they suck out of Osso bucco, that heel joint from the cow, cooked in tomato sauce and served over noodles. What your Italian uncles love— jesus! Sucking out the junk in the hoof. What does it take to stay alive these days? You got your blood you got your marrow. How much will it take to fill his gut?
Sleep
He buys you bagels and cream cheese and tells you to sleep more. How can that make you sleep? You want a pink blanket with a satin edge and a womb to curl up inside. It’s too cold out there. Icicles line the chimney making smoke impossible. But the fireplace makes you cough and summer is only a shadow with fangs. You want a dog, maybe a cat, you want things that haven’t been invented. It’s a lost world. The shape of things to come don’t match your mind. You dream of mountains flown over when it was exciting to see George Washington carved in rock. Now there is nothing left to please you. Nothing but your fist against a wall. He comes in carrying the bagel on a tray. A single red rose in a water glass.
Chia
Piss, then walk you tell him. He looks down at the carpet. Anything to keep from being part of the world. His psychology resembles that of a Chia plant: all that nice grass, green and verdant looking in its little container yet nothing grows. No new networks form. Even his hair has turned Chia. The drugs have fried him. He holds his piss like a weapon he exchanges with the bed—how many more mattresses? Delivery guys look stunned the third time. The store says go purchase elsewhere/ can’t keep removing/ stinking out the truck. No words can describe this condition in a man of forty-two. Conceptually chronic disease is bad. For real it’s worse than living in a garbage dump. He’s so cold you can’t open the windows. Today you try tempting him: Look outside, you say pointing. There’s the last Rose of Sharon for the year. Isn’t it pink and lovely?