I Wake Up Teetering
The bed is empty except for me. Queen size; it could hold a royal assortment of jelly. A toaster. Tea service.
I wake up on the edge of the mattress, teetering. The dog is looking at me funny. Outside the window, the moon smirks. Owls and possums taking bets.
On the night stand, a wary glass of water sloshes toward center. The lamp remains fixed in the off position, un-illuminating. Books piled helter skelter refuse to topple. Still, every thing looks angled from my half-suspension over the patient green carpet.
In my dream, he had me cornered. But the corners here are filled with the forgotten. Only Fitzgerald's dark night of the soul and everything Stephen Hawking warns is harmful about existence. Nothing new. No one here. Lots of space I can choose to inhabit.
What am I waiting for?
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Author's Note
published in BLIP, now (October 2010)
"The dog is looking at me funny. Outside the window, the moon smirks. Owls and pos sums taking bets."
"But the corners here are filled with the forgotten."
Many lines here to love. Beautiful story. *
Oh, this is amazing, Maryanne. I love how all the objects are personified: the smirking moon, the water glass is wary, stubborn un-toppling books, the carpet is patient. This is deep and gorgeous writing, ending on a question. Beautifully written. *
thanks so much, kim and kathy.
Flat out brilliant. Gorgeous language. What am I waiting for? More of your work. More, more!
Beautiful, Maryanne. I want to take it home with me.
I, too, love the way all the objects are living, breathing creatures.
"I wake up on the edge of the mattress, teetering."
"Lots of space I can choose to inhabit."
For me, these two lines tell the story.