Super-sized Series 1

 Conversations

 

Shoe Store by Joanne Durham

Try these, Mother, he insists, 
untying heavy, black shoes, soles thick 
as mortar. No, not those, her fingers caress 
lacy petals gracing the opposite shelf. Mom, you fell
 
twice, you need support. Armed in logic he taps 
his boot, impatient for her surrender. Few weapons
left, she lifts her sagging chin. I don’t want 
to wear those shoes. Their eyes engage 

across a field strewn with mines 
of new and ancient battles. Still, she searches
for signs of the boy whose bloody knees 
she kissed, healing all his wounds, who refused
 
to eat his oatmeal unless she etched 
his name in swirls of blossom honey

first published in Freshwater Literary Journal, (Pushcart Nomination) 


Things My Mother Would Say If She Could Talk to Me Now by Tamara Madison

You should have gotten your eyes done when I said I'd pay for it.

I'm glad you're staying limber; wish I had.

You know why your brother got the lion's share when I died -- 
I hated how your dad made him work on the farm, even as a little boy!

Your hair looks witchy like that; put it back or up or something.

You finally got rid of that moocher -- Good for you!
Let me find you a new guy!
Remember: It's just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.
At least you could find a guy who can fix things, like your brother!

Your brother was right -- Patty did turn out to be a good wife over the long haul.

I still feel bad about putting your dad in that home. Now I can't find him anywhere.
I wish I'd been more patient with your sister. I can't find her here either.

Remember the time your brother dove down thirty feet in Lake Powell to rescue a stranger's glasses?

You're about ready for that facelift you say you'll never get.
Mine always did wonders for me -- everyone said I looked like you afterward!

Call your brother more often -- I always hoped you'd stay close after I'd gone.

Have I told you how proud I am of the woman you are?
You know I love your writing; when are you going to write a novel and make some real money?



 
Photo by Mary Ellen Talley

Delightful Dialogue: Two Ordinary Guys Chat Aboard 
the 45th St Metro in Seattle and I Can’t Help Listening

by Mary Ellen Talley

Passenger: Morning.
Bus Driver: Don’t see many Vermont baseball caps out here.

P: I used to live in Burlington.
D: Ah, Ben and Jerry’s!

P: Cherry Garcia!
D: I worked at Ben & Jerry’s when it was in the gas station.

P: I remember when it still was a gas station. You know the story— when Ben and Jerry moved, they were going to open a bagel place, but bagel ovens were expensive, so they bought an ice cream maker.
D: I remember how signs in town said “Boycott the Dough Boy” when Pillsbury bought Häagen Dazs.

P: I grew up on Long Island.
D: And I remember that drive—went to school in Burlington.

P: I went to Middlebury. We thought it was pretty good when we could make it up to Burlington for the weekend.
D: I remember when you could buy Ben & Jerry stock only if you were from Vermont. I’m thinking of taking a trip back to my old haunts. Do you still have family back east?

P: We spread out. Brother in Indiana, One in Jersey. Sister in Chicago. There may be a few cousins left.
D: I moved here in ’98 and I’ve never been back.

Announcement: Next stop 50th Street. 

P: I was trying to acclimate. But you know Vermont, 
you gotta be there for five generations to be a native.
D: There’s only two seasons in Vermont: snow and mud.

P: Yeah, in winter just drive behind a snowplow.
D: I majored in agriculture but didn’t use it. l did learn that Vermont used to be all about sheep. When barbed wire was invented, the sheep industry moved west. Changed the terrain. It reforested itself.

P: Yeah, you see stone walls where there used to be pasture.
Announcement: Next stop 45th Street.

P: Here’s where I get off.
D: Always good to chat with someone from home.

Conversation by Robbi Nester

Trafficking with immensities is dangerous. 
Knowing this, I went down to the sea 
and spoke to her-- a kind of séance, 
though neither she nor I was dead. 
I thought about the moon, drawing 
the sea out of her basin like a hypnotist.  
Thousands of miles apart, that hunk of rock 
still makes the ocean leap and yearn, 
and riles us too, with its insistent light. 
The longing between them is that contagious.

I’m not the moon. 
She could hardly hear my voice
over the wind and water, though I 
could tell that she was listening 
by her expectant silence. 
I asked the ocean what message 
she might send. And then I waited.

For a moment, the sea laid calm 
and smooth, and then she raised 
a wide black wing, as a man might 
lift a hand to slap a fly out of the air. 
From a dry spot beyond the tide pools, 
I watched the wave crash down 
where I had stood, and might have 
stopped at that, but being curious 
and none too wise, came creeping 
down the bank, toward the rippling surf, 
like arcs on an oscilloscope. 
Putting out a calming hand, I sang to her, 
and found that sphynx, the ocean, 
opened up her silver eyes, and let me 
sit between her paws.

From A Narrow Bridge (Main Street Rag)

In Awe by Joe Cotttonwood

First day after maternity leave
she calls from work, from miles away.
“Did the baby just wake up?”
“Yes,” I say, bottle in hand. “How’d you know?”
“My milk let down.”

 
Photo by Al Knutson of bench he built with grandkids

Breakfast with the Grandkids by Sharon Waller Knutson

Grandpa is fixing his Egg Potato 
Scramble, I say as I set the table.
No, says the toddler in the topknot
banging on his highchair. After
frying potatoes in the skillet, Grandpa
tosses in the eggs, milk and cheese.

I love grandpa and eggs and spuds,
says the five-year-old in the pink pjs.
I’m allergic to dairy, says
her 11-year-old brother. As he fries
his bacon and eggs, he asks:
Movies or roller coasters today?

No, says the baby. Zoo, says
the five-year old. We went
to the zoo yesterday, says
her brother. The teenager
with bed head straggles in
and stares at the skillet.

I’m  a fruitarian. She snatches
a banana off the counter
and says: Let’s go shopping.
I need new sandals for the beach.
The toddler screams and Teen
Queen mashes a piece of banana
with her thumb and fore finger, 
stuffs it in his mouth and he shuts up.

Who wants to help build a bench 
for the courtyard? Grandpa asks.
No, says the toddler. The other
three raise their hands. The older
brother and sister argue over
who gets to operate the electrical
saw. Me, says their grandpa.

The toddler throws a tantrum
and wants to go outside
as we watch through glass
at the activity in the courtyard.
The saw whines, dust flies, 
hammers pound as the crew
constructs a frame out of pine,
glue on the cactus ribs 
and sand and stain the boards.

After the paint dries, we sit
in the sun on the shiny seat.
I built a bench all by myself, 
each sibling says on the phone
to family and friends. We high
five them and say: Good job.
.

Strangers, Third Floor Rear by Martha Ellen

On a snowy Winter night
alone in Henry’s ratty 
Chicago apartment. 
I was eighteen, pregnant
and sound asleep on the 
shabby hide-a-bed 
he got from some thrift store. 
I didn’t care. I was grateful. 
I had a place to sleep.

Way past midnight, startled 
awake by pounding on the 
front door ten feet from where 
I lay sleeping.
“Who is it?”
“I owe you money.” 
“No.” 
“I owe you money,” 
he repeated
“Are you alone?”
“No.” I lied.

The stranger hesitated. 
I glanced at the doorknob. 
The slot-lock was not in 
the “lock” position. 
The crunching sound of 
the packed snow under 
his shifting feet. No more 
words. He didn’t try the 
doorknob. Never knew 
how easy it would have been. 

He shuffled his feet a few 
more times and left. I hear 
his descending footsteps 
even now. I jumped up. 
Locked the door. And,
like a child, hid beneath 
the blankets until daybreak.
 
Henry came home from night
roaming. I clung to him.
“A stranger knocked last night.”
He pulled away. I felt a chill.
“Shut up. Go back to sleep.” 
I didn’t see his disappointment.



Family Business by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer

Lesson in Economics #1:
If you save half your paycheck every week,
by the time you're twenty,
you'll be halfway to rich.
"I have to work on Saturdays?"
"Do I clock out if I go to the bathroom?"
"Hey! What’s FICA and why’s it getting all my money?"
 
Lesson in Economics #2:
You can not get paid for work you
do not do.
"But Friday's my birthday! I don't have to work
on my birthday, do I?"
"I have a headache! You don't expect me to work
when I'm sick, do you?"
“I’ll work extra tomorrow. I gotta see that concert tonight!”
 
Lesson in Economics #3:
It is a cruel, cruel world.
"How could they fire me? I’m the smartest guy there!"
"They’re not hiring again till Christmas."
“What do you mean you won’t loan me ten bucks?!”

From A Mother of Sons (Pocket Books)