Waves by Robert Sanders |
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LET MY SOUL DANCE PLEASE JUST ONE MORE SONG by Shawn Aveningo The amber vial sits patiently, waiting for me, teasing me from the sink's edge. Three turquoise capsules, pretty little povules, provoke me at dawn as the Colgate froth from my mouth makes me appear crazy, insane, mad, unbalanced, out of sync, confused. I'm convinced my toothbrush has joined this conspiracy, along with the mirror, fogged just enough to erase my brow quicker than tweezers and blur the image of my breasts, one of the few reflections worth remaining, not yet scarred by the sharp scalpel cutting out my youth. "You’re not thinking clearly." "You’re not processing properly." "These problems you create are all in your head." "Choose. Just Choose to be happy." "Swallow." It's been 88 days. Not that I've been counting. Last time I tried this, I only managed to make it 60 days. That was almost four years ago. Spring is in the air and the sun has been warm on my face, casting shadows difficult to escape. I’m not sure if this is the right path to take. Sleepless nights are more common, but when I sleep, and dream, I swear it’s in color again. I know, I know. The experts claim it an impossibility. But I swear it's true. My muse visits more often now. I missed her. I didn't realize how much until now. I cry easily at movies, poetry readings, and birthday parties. But they're honest tears, unrestricted, unabashed, and seem to be less salty. I laugh, often during inappropriate moments, letting my own warped sense of humor take charge. Do you know that feeling just before laughter turns to tears? I hope you do. God, how I hope you really do. I fear too many in our world don’t allow themselves to go there. You have to let yourself loose, lose control. I like to think it's how we let our soul dance. They're still sitting there. The steam has disappeared and I can see them clearly now, still taunting me. Today, their pull is strong, magnetic and I'm feeling like an old rusty nail without a hammer. The past few days have been darker and more sporadic than I can recall. I know the voyage to the bottom is a short one and my baggage has arrived well before me. It's circling on that carousel. No one will claim it or turn it in, fearful it may explode. I fear it may implode. I've witnessed the signs. But I keep resisting the urge to take off my shoes, remove my belt, and pack everything neatly into 3 oz bottles and a Ziploc bag. I just want to go home. THE BUSINESS PROPOSAL by Shawn Aveningo She stood silently laden in white, six women surrounding her, each with a colored sash cinching their waists. She gazed into the mirror and wondered… Had anyone told him the color of her eyes? One woman brushed her ebony locks and pinned in place the perfect chignon, as the other prepared the veil of white tulle and its iridescent pearl crown. This woman took on the tedious task fastening tiny buttons trailing up her spine, as that one on her knees polished the tips of a satin slipper, placed a penny in the toe. One woman handed her a bouquet of lilies, tucked neatly in a blue kerchief, while the last one, her mother, wiped away a lonely tear, draped the gold locket around her neck and kissed her on the cheek. And as the women proceeded to take their places before the congregation, Mendelssohn's Wedding March was silenced by the sound of the gavel echoing in her mind and the repeat of one single word — Sold. PATCHWORK HEART by Shawn Aveningo I wish I had a suitcase packed with a million little hearts, each one shiny and new like the golden locket I wore around my neck when I was a little girl. That was before. Before all the heartbreak, the heartache, the heart wrenching task of pasting the parts of my heart back together again. I wish I could reach inside that bag and hand you one of those hearts, perfectly polished, unscarred, untarnished, full of promise and truth. But all I have for you is this used up old heart, ripped at the seams, stuffed with my love and stitched back together like Raggedy Ann. So here I am. Your ragdoll rescued from the bottom of the toy chest. Your baby doll, yours and yours alone, to love.  Shawn Aveningo Shawn Aveningo was recently voted one of THE BEST POETS in the 2009 Sacramento News & Review Reader Poll. Her Poetry has appeared in Rattlesnake Review, WTF, PoetryNow, Survivor’s Review, The Ophidian, JukeBox, POETZ, and Medusa’s Kitchen. She has three published collections of poetry: She Has Something to Say, Stripped and Because Red Is Your Favorite Color. Her latest project, And Life Goes On… is a compilation of poetry chronicling the journey of a donor, inspired by her own experience donating a kidney to her father. You can contact Shawn via her new enterprise The Poetry Box. |
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