Issue Three

Spring 2012


A Moody Day

Late afternoon, a May day that keeps
revising itself: sun in / out / in. Finally settle
on a book. A Few Days (James Schuyler)—
poo-poo-ed by at least
one critic: he’s over-doing it,
the trope of the la-dee-dah:
here is a flower in a vase, why not
write an ode to it? Oh, and by-the-
bye, I’m listening to Scriabin
(where’s the accent in Scri-a-bin, anyway?).

The sun pops and I pop out 
to a deck chair, open the lush
green summer cover (thank you,
Darragh Park). Jimmy does sing (he’s on
the right meds) to snowdrop and velvet rose
and that rose of a girl who takes
care of him (though it’s assistant Tom
he has a crush on, he admires Helena’s
youth), also, a small “MADE IN ITALY”
notebook—How it takes me back!
he sighs and I am taken
to a soft, leather-bound unlined journal
Mike gave me for my birthday—two years
before his death. Five years now—seven

since that b-day (I still remember the black
turtle neck he was wearing—so damn
Aryan). Tightly bound pages
that never worked out. I loved the bury-
your-nose smell, though, and the story
of trudging up a Tuscan hill, partner Mark
in tow, to buy it. Too bad sweet Marcel,
the papillon pup, chewed the wrap-around
leather tie to a crispy point. It was an objet d’art
and I let it be mouthed. I felt bad. Then Mike
died. I felt worse. Now, Marcel’s dead too.
The day tastes different.




Priscilla Atkins

red fractal