Tell Me A Story

A Poet's Journey

New beginnings should always involve an element of the unattainable as inspiration.

 
 
  • Angela Stubbs

Vacation From Mercy

Updated: Oct 7, 2018


I gesture and you nod. I say pen and you say no, thank you. I want to talk but watch your edges crackle when I say company and soften when my voice stays too long on the eee.

You say rice milk and nutrition, and I say something that sounds like more. You set down boxes, and ask me to pour myself a bowl to discuss the merits of bran versus flax.

Your eyes widen and relax with your coffee. I see how nervous you get when I start breathing the air that’s arguably yours. The television talks of weather and winners and what happens when we share the quiet meant for prayer and sleeping. I begin to blow some air from the corner of my mouth to my bangs and wait to see if your face agrees with risk. I can tell by the way you scoot toast crumbs around the counter that you’re distracted by additions.


A book entitled, Handwriting Analysis: A Guide for Understanding sits in your lap. You are tracing over the images of letters and words on the back cover while heat radiates from your coffee and your hands fold around the cracked, white mug.


I’ve tried to forget the way loneliness takes over. I keep pushing it away with my foot, I keep telling myself that it can be outrun. Those who write the letter N with pointed humps are highly intelligent and fast thinkers. They can also be self-conscious.

You are a watch wound too tightly. As I move out the door you pull out an old receipt from your back pocket and look for indications. I head down the walk without a word. The kitchen dangles pots and pans overhead. I remain seated at the table, inert—wondering for hours at a time about decorative baskets as a replacement for cookware.

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