Special Gifts

Marianne Szlyk

 

 

 Mrs. Thelma 

 

Poet and fiction writer Marianne Szlyk shares a series of poems in which her cat, Thelma, her muse, is reincarnated into a woman after she dies.

  

In the Next Life, the Former Cat Thelma

dines on raw carrots
and red grapes, no milk, no meat.

She longs to perch on the arm
of the near-antique chair, still

plush and low to the ground.
She longs to sprawl

over a matching sofa
she does not own yet.

In a one-bedroom condo,
close enough to Atlanta,

in almost-silence, with walls
where tape does not stick,

she is reading a Christmas
comfort book on Zen.

She remembers a woman saying
that humans who devoured meat

would return as dogs and cats.
Her neighbor turns on his stereo.

Too loud, his songs remind her
of her last life: bass, drums,

and saxophones, the days
when she was fascinated

by the carrots and grapes
her people ate.

Thelma in Largo

She gives in
to the manager
(who is a flirt, by the way)
and orders the sweet potato fries.

She won’t outgrow
her new shoes,
the cobalt and black stilettos,
the nude pumps,
even the silver suede boots.

She settles in,
just fitting onto the stool, and
tosses her glossy hair
until she notices some men
watching.
Then she busies herself
cutting up the chicken
in her salad.

She adds
just a little dressing.

The girl refills her soda.
Or is it pop?
Co-cola?  Coke?
Thelma gives in
and orders
a slice of lemon pie.

She gives in.

Let’s Go Away for Awhile

Thelma and her husband sing along to Pet Sounds
when driving to the Cape.   Jerry Cole’s guitar
begins “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” and they launch
into song, his voice too wild, hers with
the Texas accent she never can lose.   They
plunge in, splashing past strip malls and swamp.
But this instrumental is the song she loves best,
the vibraphone like sunshine against drums like surf,
the horns like the wave that crashes furthest
onto the rocks, not quite the highway.
The strings are clouds, meringue she has whipped
up in a stainless steel bowl at home.

She almost forgets that the east coast
has weak surf, and slimy seaweed clings to
 waders’ calves in warm, knee-high water
as she and her husband waddle in among
the thin girls from Boston.  She then remembers
cold, cloudy Mondays when the two of them

drive back home, listening to their inland music:
Chicago blues, Texas swing, Hank Williams’ “Honky Tonkin’”,
the old songs that better suit their voices.
Maybe she likes that this instrumental comes before
anyone can see the bridge or the traffic.
Or she likes to catch her breath

before “Sloop John B”’s lyrics grind her down
like the refrain of a whiny child.
She catches her breath.

Thelma at HR-57

After setting down her plate of chicken,
red beans, and rice, Thelma settles in,
full skirt spilling over the folding chair.  

She sips Diet Coke, her one concession
to a snug waistband, as she watches
her husband step up to the spotlight.

She closes her eyes, tries to forget
the other musicians crowding the stage
at this Thursday night open mic.  

She opens her eyes once her husband
plays the first notes on his guitar
in this dim, smokeless club.  She recognizes

the song, “Blue Moon.”  He’s played it
at home many times, sometimes fast, sometimes
slow.  The notes hang in the air

like perfume would if anyone wore it
nowadays.  She shushes the thin girls
at the next table although she knows

his guitar is louder.  He speeds up,
and rainstorm notes flood the narrow room,
obscuring the distant moon.

She imagines the notes rushing onto 14th,
nipping at the ears of couples.
A young man in a vintage suit

raises one eyebrow.  Her sister Callie winces,
raising a bottle of low-carb beer
to dive bar black lips.  Thelma

lets her dinner cool as she applauds.
Then an old man raises his horn,
bringing the song back to jazz.

Originally published in Mad Swirl.    

 

 

 

Thelma in Bushwick

Finding her way back to where
walls stand blank in blistering heat,
she almost misses the house,

the last wooden one on this street,
its paint fading to silver,
its gingerbread carvings intact.

Imagining it’s cool inside,
she pictures herself with her friend
drinking tumblers of ice water.

But dust and heat thicken stagnant air.
She would choke on just that alone.
She shakes her head.  She must visit

her old friend, the last she keeps up with.
Imagining a warm welcome,
she rings the doorbell.  She knows it will be

otherwise in that place.

Still, she wishes she could trust her friend
 

 

 

 

Van Gogh’s Stairway

Listening to
Van Morrison’s song,
Thelma mishears it
as Van Gogh’s stairway,
one more place
for her and Casseau
to walk in Arles.
At night they’d climb
to see the stars fizzing,
then falling like large
snowflakes to the
summer ground.

Days they’d ascend
before a late lunch
at the night café,
after a tour of
the yellow house,
their heads giddy
with images
and paint fumes,
the moon
somewhere,
nowhere.
She imagines looking out
to the cornfields
or banks of irises
seeing a red-haired man
bent over
his Bible.  
She knows
the fields are gone,
even in France.
She knows
Casseau is gone.
Crows now fly
from lawn to lawn,
hopping on the clipped grass.

 

 

Thelma on Foot

As she walks north, the fog lifts.
Clouds harden into blue-gray stone.
The sunlight, a strip of pink satin,
shows up.  She supposes
it’s hope.

She turns to the east, away
from the sun’s slight cheer.
Bare trees turn bitter.
She can taste them
from across Viers Mill.

She didn’t expect to miss her sister,
the one who fought her, cursed her,
scratched her face, pulled her hair out.
Bare trees turn brittle,
but they resist the weak sun.

A sister is company in old age,
the empty house facing south,
direction of false hope, all else gone
but cable’s bark of voices
throughout the night.

Now Thelma is alone.
She walks away from the west,
far from lakes and rivers,
the direction where she could find Callie,
the place where she won’t.
 

 

 

Publishing credits:

"In the Next Life, The Former Cat Thelma" -- Spectrum: Close Encounters
"Thelma on Foot" -- Pigpenn
"Thelma in Largo" -- Aberration Labyrinth
"Thelma in Bushwick" -- Spectrum: Social Media Trust
"Thelma at HR-57" -- Mad Swirl
"Van Gogh's Stairway" -- Ramingo's Porch
"Let's Go Away for a While" -- Contemporary American Voices