Suburban Labyrinth
February 4, 2011
Friends driving down nondescript American roads. Mailboxes with open mouths casting moony shadows on lawns. Bushes trimmed and decorative trees padded with red mulch. Warping road stretching longingly towards the dark horizon.
Birch bark stands out like European cousins in your basement. We’ll play poker if it’s Jason’s. I will become aggressively competitive and beat my chest with conviction. Losing, I bring my party to the porch. We bum cigarettes, lighting them within the shelter of gnarled branches.
The smoke shakes new consciousness into the moment. Bleary eyes look to the sky in anticipation of a psychic event and return, reddened and heavy lidded to the circle of familiar faces. No speaking, only the shifting of weight, the scuffing of moss with worn sneakers — listening to bristling cattails egged to motion by the whir of cars.
Deep breaths and loaded looks at Thanksgiving. Old hurt and humiliation, wordless feelings, “She and he have changed.” Secrets suppressed in phantom adulthood cry for nighttime delusions. With each open mouthed sigh we release their spores to the air.
“This is, my Darlin’, home.”
“This is my darling home.”
Suburban labyrinths bleed the past and collect diseased platelets in above-ground pools and bird baths. We put cigarettes out in the blood. Callous, hallucinating, we forget we have bled it.
“Do it again tomorrow?”
Negotiating rides with meaningful eyes, we diverge into pairs to open new wounds.
Deep bass startles sleeping dogs. We plumet deep into the night.
