her, tell her it’s all a huge mistake.
But what I really want to say
is, “Big effin’ deal. Divorce?
At least they were together
while you were growing up.
At least you’ll get to see him
almost as much as you do now.
At least you know just who
in the bloody hell your father is!”
But that would take Nikki-Complete.
What I hold here is Nikki-in-Tatters.
So I take her hand, lead her
into the kitchen, sit her at the table.
“I brought a little something
that will make you feel better.”
I twist one up, half expecting her
to say no. She only smokes weed
on special occasions. Apparently
this occasion qualifies, however.
She takes a big drag, fights not
to cough. Fails, and that makes
the tears fall harder. He—hack—
is such a prick. I ca-can’t—hack—
believe he could just up and leave
Mom. N-not—hack—f-f-for … her!
“Who?” None of my business,
of course. But, hey, she brought it up.
His goddamn boss! You know,
the bitch who owns the company?
She’s old. Rich, yeah, but old …
Her voice is tinged with hysteria.
After almost twenty-five years,
he leaves Mom for … for her?
“Here.” I pass her the J. “Take
another hit. A little one this time.”
She doesn’t cough, but she does ask,
You’d never cheat on me, would you?
I BITE DOWN HARD
On the impending lie.
Fact is, I’ve already
cheated on Nikki,
though I’m not sure
why. It was an awful
mistake, and it only
happened once, post-
football-game beer
binge. God, that girl—
a Vegas Rebels fan,
and so a rival meant
to be jeered at, not laid—
was a real piece of work.
Anorexic as hell, but
high-horsepower motor,
revved to the max …
Nikki stares at me,
waiting for an answer.
Say something quick,
idiot. I reach across
the table, take possession
of her hand, look into
the depths of her tear-
glittered eyes. “You
are my one and only.”
AS THE WORDS
Slide out of my mouth,
I wish I could mean them.
She is so beautiful, just there.
A fairy seeking wings, and
when she finds them, I know
she’ll fly far, far away.
Love is like that.
Suddenly I want her more
than anything. Like some
conceit-driven Grimm
Brothers king, I need to
capture my sprite with
trembling hands. Except
I could crush her.
Wonder how many small
things of beauty—flowers,
seashells, dragonflies—
have met such a demise.
Wonder how much fragile
love has collapsed
beneath the weight of confession.
ENOUGH ALREADY
One too many lit classes,
I guess. A little too much poetry,
dredged up at all the wrong times.
Thanks so much for that, Mom.
You’ve got a poet’s soul, she told
me once. And an old soul at that.
Whatever that means. I don’t feel
so old, for the most part. I do like
words, but this is not the time
for them, nor is it the time for
confessions. There is invitation
in Nikki’s eyes. It’s time for that.
THE WOOD
In her room is cherry—deep
reddish brown. Elegant.
The sheets on her bed are black
satin. Slick beneath desire-
dampened skin. Her hair is like
a sunburst against the onyx-
colored pillowcase. Its perfume
spices the air with ginger
and some exotic bloom.
The scent fuels my hunger
for her body. I want to own
it, merge with it, become part
of her. Hurry, she urges. But
the tease is almost the best
part of the game, so I bring her
close and closer with my hands
and mouth and finally I am inside
her. I can’t get enough, so we go
and go until the only thing left
is to finish. And still I want more.
Autumn Rose Shepherd
SOMETIMES I SEE FACES
Somehow familiar,
but I don’t know why.
I cannot label them,
no matter how intently
I try. They are nameless.
And yet not strangers.
Like Alamo ghosts, they
emerge from deep
of night, materialize
from darkness, deny
my sleep. I would call them
dreams. But that’s too easy.
I SUSPECT
One of those faces belongs
to my mother. It is young, not
much older than mine, but weary,
with cheeks like stark coastal
cliffs and hollow blue eyes, framed
with drifts of mink-colored hair.
I don’t look very much like her.
My hair curls, auburn, around
a full, heart-shaped face, and
my eyes are brown. Or, to be
more creative, burnt umber. Nothing
like hers, so maybe I’m mistaken
about her identity. Is she my mother?
Is she the one who christened me
Autumn Rose Shepherd? Pretty
name. Wish I could live up to it.
AUNT CORA INSISTS
I am pretty. But Aunt Cora
is a one-woman cheering section.
Thank goodness the grandstands
aren’t completely empty.
I’m kind of a lone wolf, except
for Cherie, and she’s what you
might call a part-time friend.
We hang out sometimes, but
only if she’s got nothing better
going on. Meaning no ballet recitals
or play rehearsals or guy-of-the-day
to distract her from those.
But Aunt Cora is always there,
someone I can count on, through
chowder or broth, as Grandfather says.
Old Texas talk for “thick or thin.”
GENERALLY
Things feel
about the consistency
of milky oatmeal.
With honey.
Raisins.
Nuts.
Most days,
I wake up relatively
happy. Eat breakfast.
Go to school.
Come home.
Dinner.
Homework.
Bed.
Blah, blah, blah.
But sometimes,
for no reason beyond
a loud noise or leather
cleaner smell, I am afraid.
It’s like yanking myself
from a nightmare only,
even wide awake,
I can’t unstick myself
from the fear of the dream.
I don’t want to
leave my room.
CAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT
Of people staring, I’m sure
they will. Sure they’ll know.
Sure they’ll think I’m crazy.
The only person I can talk to
is Aunt Cora. I can go to her
all freaked out. Can scream,
“What’s the matter with me?”
And she’ll open her arms, let me
cry and rant, and never once
has she called me crazy. One
time she said, Things happened
when you were little. Things you
don’t remember now, and don’t want
to. But they need to escape,
need to worm their way out
of that dark place in your brain
where you keep them stashed.
THAT FELT RIGHT
And now, when that
unexplained dread
boxes me in, I take
deep breaths, try to
free those bad things,
whatever they are. It
doesn’t always work.
But sometimes it does.
And always, always,
I thank Aunt Cora for
giving me some smidgen
of understanding about
who I am and what
surprises life might
have in store for me.
I swear, without her
I probably would
have jumped off
a bridge the first
time I got my period.
Yeah, we’d had the basic
You’re a Woman Now
video and discussion
in sixth grade. But
textbook “birds
and bees” cannot
even prepare you for
what that really means.
I HATE WHEN I BLEED
Can’t tell my period when to start,
how many hours to make me
miserable. Can’t tell it not to come
at all. I have zero control over
any of that, and that really,
really bothers me. See, I’ve got
a little thing called OCD.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder
is something people make fun of.
But when it’s something
you’ve got, there’s nothing
funny about it. First off,
you know you have it, know
some little piece of your brain
is totally out of whack. Nothing
you can do about that, either.
Not without therapy, and that
means telling someone you know
you’re just a tiny bit crazy.
How do you admit that without
giving up every bit of power
you have finally managed to grasp?
Some people have it worse than I do,
I guess. I mean I don’t wash my hands
seventeen times a day or count
every step I take, then take a couple
more until the exact number from
here to there is divisible by three.
My compulsion is simply order.
Everything in its place, and spaced
exactly so—one inch, no more, no less,
between hairbrush and comb. Two
inches, no more, no less, between pairs
of shoes on my closet floor. Black socks,
upper left corner of my top right dresser
drawer; white socks in the lower right.
I doubt Grandfather has even noticed
how every can in the cupboards is
organized alphabetically, labels out,
or that cleaning supplies beneath
the sink are arranged by color.
But Aunt Cora definitely has.
SHE DOESN’T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY
She thinks it’s funny, and funnier
still to mess with my mind by moving
my shoes farther apart
or puttingmycombinsidemybrush
or arranging a can of
yams
in front
of the
applesauce.
She says I should lighten up, quit
beating myself up mentally. I know
she only wants what’s best for me,
but sometimes she makes me mad.
If it were easy to throw
my
clothes
into
a heap
on the floor,
of course I’d rather do that than
spend hours
folding them
precisely
right. Right?
I AM IN THE DEN
Arranging Grandfather’s
eclectic collection of
paperbacks alphabetically
by author—Graham, Billy;
Grey, Zane; Grisham, John—
when the telephone rings.
I’ve got it! Grandfather
yells from the kitchen.
I peek at the caller ID.
NV St Prsn—Nevada
State Prison. The collect
calls from Trey come once
in a while. Usually, to listen
to Grandfather’s raves,
when his prison account
needs a cash recharge.
Little SOB wants me
to pay for his cigarettes
and soap? Does he think
I’m made of money?
Still, he always sends it.
Three times convicted
felon or not, Trey will
always be his son. His son.
I SLIP QUIETLY
Along the linoleum. Grandfather
does not appreciate me listening in.
But for some reason, my radar
is blipping. There’s something
different about this call. Maybe
it’s the tone of Grandfather’s voice
tipping me off. It’s not exactly
hard to hear him. He’s yelling.
But despite the high volume, a tremor
makes him sound downright old.
I don’t give a damn what you want.
You are not welcome in this house.
I told you that when you went away,
and I haven’t changed my mind.
“Went away,” meaning he was locked up
by the State of Nevada. Again. That was
eight years ago. I remember he called to
share the news while we were planning
my ninth birthday party. I had no
idea what “five to fifteen” meant.
But it sure seemed to take all the fun
out of talking about balloons and cake.
Apparently it’s working out to “more
than five, less than fifteen.” At least,
that’s what I’m hearing from the kitchen.
You may have paid your debt to society,
but you haven’t paid your debt to me.
Not to mention to your daughter. She
doesn’t even know who you are, and
neither do I. Car thief? Drug addict?
You just stay the hell away from here.
I don’t need that kind of worry.
This call is costing an arm and a leg.
I’m going to hang up now.
AND HE DOES
The phone slams against the table,
loud enough for me to hear it
from here. I scoot away from
the door, down the hall, just as
Grandfather exits the kitchen.
He looks at me, anger smoking,
black, in his already dark eyes.
I suppose you heard all that.
I hate talking ill about your father,
but that boy is doomed to go
straight on down to the devil
when he dies. He moves toward
me, trembling slightly. I should’a
beat that boy more. He never
did have an ounce of respect
or caring for anyone except for
himself. Not even for your mama,
I’m guessing. I told Maureen
he was gonna end up badly
if she didn’t … never mind.
GRANDFATHER IS STERN
To put it too mildly. I love him,
of course. How could I not
love someone who gathered me
in, offered a home and his unique
brand of love? It’s hard for him
to love, I think. He has been divorced.
Remarried. Widowed. Left to live
mostly alone until Aunt Cora
reappeared, with little toddler me
tucked haphazardly under one arm.
I do love him. But sometimes he’s harsh.
“Mean” might be more accurate.
He reminds me of a cop walking
the beat too long, in a bad part
of the city—creased and bitter-
eyed and too early gray. He yells.
Rants. Every once in a while,
he leaves a bruise, no apology.
For my own good, he says, So you
don’t end up like your father.
More than once I’ve heard him try to
blame Trey’s mom for her son turning
out bad. Maureen never understood
that kids need discipline, or they’ll ride
roughshod over you. A good switching
by a loving hand never hurt no one.
Quoted directly from his own father
would be my guess, and the oxymoronic
bite of the statement slipped
his notice completely, right along
with the bigger issue he insists
on ignoring: Maureen left him because
of his own drug habit and the reasons
behind it. The pills he pops like Tic Tacs
are legal. Prescribed to moderate
sleep problems and anger problems
and mood problems that swing him
from suicidal to crazy happy in
the space of a few hours. All I can
say is thank God for modern medicine.
SOMETIMES, WHEN IT’S JUST
Grandfather and me, if he’s downed
the exact right combination
of pills and brew, he’ll talk
about growing up in a little
backwater town maybe
six hours north of here.
Sweetwater may not be so
very far from San Antonio,
but it’s a wide world apart.
We were possum poor and not
exactly unhappy being that way.