Breadcrumb #281

LISA MARIE BASILE

For M.

When did this violet come                     
                                    to take you away?
It shifts in places we cannot know. As roots below the earth
                        of gold.
Let me hold you
                        in water,      of water.
Let me wash you
            from this coil.
Of suffering, you aspirate all over that yellow light
             & white coverlet;
                        a collapsing. Even the summer broke
            to you. How the fight
becomes kingdom. How dark blood
            becomes clean once it stops running. 
                        Weep now.
How life is a temperance of tears,
                        but not now. Now you can water your threshold.
You only have to make one decision:
            the salt of the earth
                        or fire.
You only have to sleep. You choose fire.
            You do not have to breath.
Your organs are not chosen.
You go when you are not awake,
            we wake when you have gone.
                        Your skin is free from poison.
                        In the smallest hours of night
I bend my knees.                They take your skin with them.
Of day I lay my head upon the ground.
            I crawl from water to land to mourn you.
                        They give your skin to those who need it.
You are the sound that lasts on and on, pulling
     us through its veil.

• • •

Breadcrumb #280

SARA MARTIN

I think a lot about the dog Winn-Dixie and when he gets peanut butter stuck to the top of his mouth. When the blind lady feeds him in the back of her junk yard, with lemonade, the kind of one she squeezes into a pitcher, and makes sure to tell everyone she did it herself. I think about milk, too, what it takes to be as smooth and thick as milk. I think about milk, how a boy in the morning chugs a carton till the edges fold in and their stomachs, fold, over their waistband, that is mostly gray, sometimes green and plaid. I think about doctor’s rooms white lounge chairs, that squeak on paper and tear triangles in it, when you move. I think about weight, how I hover in front of the number so mama won’t see. I think about getting my blood taken, lots of sundays, after eating a banana besides the bottom- how sunday’s blood work feels like being on the doctor’s scale, and closing my eyes until she’s done. I think about sunday mass at 12:15, slouched like vanilla pudding in the pew. Pushing little lego men into my bear-like stomach so my sisters would watch them pop up in the air, like bungee cords. I think about when mama got mad at me for making a ruckus in church, and I laughed mostly then, because we weren’t supposed to.

    I think about the boy I love, how he stutters over things that come straight from the ground. The dirt- honey, from a bee’s stinger.  I think about how he’s dumbfounded by hollowed out peach pits if they’re not netted in sugarcane. I think about how he’s dumbfounded by densities- squash, and eggplant, that are heavy and light and medium, and why that is, and why that’s not. I think about what it’s like to have thin blonde hair, like the dog Winn-Dixie, instead of being milk, that bounces lego’s off it’s core, heavy and scared. I think about how the boy I love is dumbfounded by the weight of vegetables, like squash, or a carton. How he dreams of little Winn-Dixie's, that have the sweetest peach pits in the world. Like all us women’s peach pits should.

• • •

Breadcrumb #279

CARLY MACISAAC

I’m just musing out loud
but I think in a past life we were once really happy
and maybe this was all a temporary glitch
but on this plane
and in this lifetime
it’s like catching fireflies
and I cannot continue to be a fragile paper doll for you.
so I hope all your colors come back
and your weary soul finally finds a home
that is not bound to mine.

• • •

Breadcrumb #278

DALLAS RICO

Another long week. Rey returns home from Job. As he walks through the door, he reminds himself why he does this every day. How else will he pay the mortgage and feed Wife and Kids? Her teacher salary? Please. Though Wife probes him about his day, he refuses to give anything besides the occasional grunt. She should know by now he would rather talk about politics than Job. He hates talking about politics.

    They put the children to sleep. Though exhausted, he’s never too tired to fuck. That makes one of them. He massages her shoulder, their unspoken sign for sex. At his prompting, she shrugs him off and rolls over to the other side. “Good night,” she says. Now too horny to sleep, Rey reaches for his phone for a distraction. Anything will do. Like the text he received from Bud. Another invite for drinks at their local watering hole. What is usually an empty gesture is today an escape for the night.

    Rey glances at his wife to see if she’s asleep. “Honey, I’m going to grab a few drinks with Bud,” he whispers. As he throws on his peacoat, he texts Wife just in case she wakes up in the middle of the night, wondering where he went off to. She can hold the fort for a couple of hours.

“What is usually an empty gesture is today an escape for the night.”

    He walks to his SUV parked a few blocks down and makes his way to the pub. Bud is already at the bar, halfway through his first Heineken. Rey orders the usual whiskey coke. As they drink, Bud goes through the woes of the divorce proceedings, the same information he conveys via text every week. At the end of his update, Rey lays his hand on Bud's shoulder and tells him everything will be okay. That independence isn’t always a bad thing. Over their second drink, Bud discuss Daughter’s budding acting career. He couldn’t be prouder. His daughter, the beautiful starlet. On drink #3, the room starts to wobble like a rickety boat. Already? Those drinks did taste more whiskey than coke. Bud glances at his Apple Watch. It’s late and he should be heading home. He has an early morning meeting at Firm. Rey wants to finish his drink so they part ways. Bud lives on the block so he simply walks home. Lucky.

    Finish his drink, Rey does. Reason tells him he should return to his family now. That he’s had enough fun for the night. But the night’s still young and he has no early morning meeting. He’s an asset to Job. He could tell them he’ll be coming in late or take the whole day off and they wouldn’t bat an eye. So, when Bartender comes back around Rey orders an Old Fashioned. He takes his time casually sipping his drink and scrolling down his Instagram feed. He’s old enough to know the happy images presented are all fabrications, just like his. He lands on a photo Wife posted today. It’s an old picture they took in the park a few months ago when Son first started walking. When you see the picture, you wouldn’t be crazy the assume they’re a happy family. Bud took similar photos months ago.

    Bartender tells Rey it’s last call, so he downs his drink and closes his tab. Reason tells him he should call an Uber, that it’s too risky to drive in his current state. But, once again, Pride gets the best of him. After all, Home is only a 15-minute drive away and traffic is light at this late hour. Rey gets into his car and drives through the haze of blurry lights bleeding into each other. His eyes droop. The blaring sound of a horn startles him awake as he crosses an intersection on a red light. His lightning-quick reflexes save the day. He jerks the wheel to the side, narrowly avoiding a full-on collision with the van. Their bumpers tap. Rey and Driver get out of their cars to inspect the damage. Nothing but a light dent on Rey’s car. The van is spotless. Concerned, Driver offers to take Rey home. Rey says he’ll be fine. He gets back into his car and takes the slowest, most sobering drive down the last few blocks. Maybe God, the Universe or Life itself is warning him to stop this before it’s too late. In that moment, he vows that he will, but, deep down, we all know how this story ends.

• • •

Breadcrumb #277

ANNA KANDER

Your words are funhouse mirrors.
They twist and warp,
presenting distortions back at me.
I’m not sure whether to laugh
or scream.

Outside our carnival tent,
sun dries dropped sodas
and hot dog buns.
Small birds peck crumbs
and seem happy.

Inside, darkness swallows
our maze of glass
like a python constricting.
Shatter, serpent!
Cut yourself to pieces.

• • •