Impressionable

She and I are friends, but we meet to share all the things we dislike about ourselves.

We sit at the edge of the field watching the tall grass sway back and forth. “A thing I dislike,” I say. “How I bend to the wind, like this grass.”

She agrees, “Not knowing what I want and letting the breeze crush me, exposing the brown soil at the seam. Yes.”

We watch the grasses yield to the wind. The ones closest to us are turning to straw, but on the other side of the deep blue scar between fields, the reeds stand triumphant and green and the willows moan low and gray.

“A thing I dislike,” I say. “How people call me Technicolor when this is my reality palette.”

As I sweep my hand in front of me, the straw grasses bow down, the scar sings, and the willows throw some shade.

“We are the colors of nature,” she agrees. “Yes.”

We clasp forearms and help each other rise, but then change our minds, brushing the dirt from our clothes and scattering our souls to the wind.

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Ma Valise

At the end of their relationship, she packed a small blue suitcase, scolded her cat for biting the handle, and left Los Angeles for the convent.

In the crook of her arm, she carried his brain in a jar.

Ball jar.
Rubber ring seal.
The pickled eternal he always wanted to be.

Together they took up residence in a small room on the second floor above the cheese cave. Every day smelled like a new age of cheese. She placed the jar on the corner of the desk where it could sunbathe from three to four each afternoon. After the sun passed, she pressed her ear against the glass, curious if he was still thinking. She swore she heard him whisper, “This is why I’m not a monk. I like cheese better than Chartreuse.”

She swept the convent’s kitchen floor, missed her cat, and spent time in the library before going to bed. There, she read about the French monks and their secret recipe for a peculiar green drink. Chartreuse.

Back in her room, she unfolded the pajamas from the small blue suitcase, snapped it shut, and, from her knees on the floor, whispered to the feathers in the pillow, “This is why I’m not a monk.”

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