Gambler

The chips stack up on the table

Watch them, watch you watching me.

Your poker face is impeccable.

But the better it gets, the more I lose,

because I keep laying cards on the table

and when I’m sure I’ve got a straight flush

your face is anything but,

and I’m out my last bet to your hand.

My pile’s low now and

you’ve exhausted me completely.

So before I go all in,

why don’t you hold on to your apathy?

And I’ll pick up my pride.

We’ll go our separate ways,

I fold.

The Confession

          He wrung his hands together and stalked back and forth across the room like a starved lion pacing its cage. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he noticed that the glass he was holding had spilled water across the carpet. He sat down on the bed. Sat up. Checked his watch—6:40 PM—she’d be home in five minutes. By 6:45 PM, he thought, it would all be over. He’d say it as soon as she walked in the door.

            He looked out the window and watched his six-year-old son ride his bicycle in the driveway. A pained grimace came to his face as he remembered what had been the catalyst to all of this—his son, really. If only he’d taken the boy to school on time that day, he wouldn’t have met her and this would not have happened. This. This cobweb from which he was about to sever himself. She would understand. She would understand that he’d been lonely with her late hours at work and that the affair had been short-lived. She would forgive him and they could forget about everything.

            A car door slammed in the driveway and he strode to the garage door with a sudden rush of euphoria. He felt almost giddy with the prospect of relief. She reached the door before he did and it burst open. But it was not she who opened it. His neighbor pulled him through the door and in the street he saw two cars, an ashen-faced teenager standing dumbstruck next to a Corvette, and he saw her screaming over the body of their son. A blur of flashing red lights crossed his vision and he heard the voices of paramedics somewhere in the background.

            “Time of death? Time of death: 6:45 PM.”

The Bats

I spoke to the bats after bedtime

At the witching hour, when,

formless, at first,

the inky blackness

would emerge from the walls

into paperthin wings.

And the glimmer of two tiny green jewels

would meet the glimmer of mine

Blinking, wide-eyed, unmoving,

My sweet phantoms.

I spoke to them after bedtime

when the door cracked open a sliver

and my limbs would tense into numbness.

Footsteps, the creak of the bedframe.

An unwelcome hand.

Then I’d summon my friends,

my apparitions,

and watch them fly in silence

across the ceiling.

Some nights they’d flutter

Like young butterflies just released from their cocoons

Other times I would watch them in slow motion,

Like manta rays patrolling some dark sea.

Always, they would stare

And it hypnotized me.

But when the door creaked closed again,

So would my trance.

And the bats would fade back into their caves,

The corners of the room.

I begged them not to go,

But the little jewels would blink into blackness,

Evaporated.

The pain would come easily, now.

And I’d ask the bats to not let me remember,

But unwelcome hands leave red marks,

And there’s only so much the bats can do.

Hope struck her flint today

So I smothered her

before the old newsprint I'd saved as kindling caught fire.

I kicked myself for not disposing of it long ago,

but still, I stack the wood.

Because that's all it really is--

Old news.

Yesterday's headlines are a dime a dozen

And no one gives pennies for tired thoughts now,

Not even a dozen.

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

But longing fulfilled is the tree of life."

So cut yourself a sapling and

build a wooden box, Little Wish.

A casket that you can call home.

The Fortress

A most unfortunate circumstance,

coming along when you did.

As I put the finishing touches on the keep, stationed the garrisons,

you knocked on the heavy gates,

claiming you came in peace.

But I disregarded your white flag,

and instead we settled to let you set up camp

at a safe distance on the banks of the moat.

It was a rotten deal from the start and I told you so.

Nevertheless, at each daybreak

when the perimeter was patrolled

 for any newly fashioned secret entrances,

or attempts at infiltration,

I would watch you from my tower.

You would shake out your sleeping mat,

Water your horse, light the small stack of wood.

I could count on it, day by day.

And I found it odd that you wore no armor.

Then you would look up at me--

bravely, patiently,

Kindly.

And I would rip my gaze from yours,

making good on the indifference I'd promised to deliver.

On the nights when I held the masquerade balls,

inviting jesters, fools, noble men and women--

liars, deceivers, traitors--

into the outer courts,

Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of you outside,

shivering in the moonlight.

Your eyes held no guile.

So I left you in the cold

and opened the windows to make sure

you could hear the music inside.

Because I'd told myself long ago

that no one would ever put a sparkle

in my eye again.

I remember the day you delivered the

peace offering.

With nothing but vulnerability

you walked past the line of guards with iron spears,

and kneeling, offered it with outstretched hands.

You hid nothing.

And taking it, I held it in my hands

like a fragile baby.

I could feel the life-blood running through it--

still beating.

So before I could look into the eyes

that I already knew were fixed on me tenderly,

I let it slip through my fingers and fall on the glass floor.

And as I turned from your frame and walked away,

coldly, calmly,

the beating ceased into silence.

But I didn't look back.

Because you should have known.

Because I told you I would do this from the start. 

Recollections of an Eccentric Child

When I was about six years old, my sister and I begged my parents to let us have a dog. After the tragic disappearance of our German Shepherd/Wolf mix (Yes, wolf. Don't ask), we longed for the companionship of a loyal canine once again. That friendship arrived in the form of Coffee, a mutt mix given to us from some neighbors down the road. Coffee was delightful--that is, until she began to chew. And chew and chew and chew. Shoes, wallets, exotic flutes...

So. Something had to be done. My mother and sister left for work one day, so it was just my dad and me. And Coffee. Without explanation, Dad loaded Coffee and me up into the little blue Mazda. I now realize she must have done something really terrible, judging by the proceeding events. I giggled and laughed as Coffee licked my face and bounded back and forth behind me. We pulled in behind the Best Western on the edge of town, drove down into the thicket that borders the river, and came to a stop. Dad got out of the car, let Coffee out of the trunk, and pulled a shotgun from out of nowhere. In eager anticipation for something exciting, I pushed my face up against the window and peered out.

All I can really remember at this point is dad aiming at Coffee, pulling the trigger once, pulling the trigger twice, and Coffee's eye turning red as it filled up with blood. And then we drove home.

We arrived in the driveway just as my mom and sister were also getting home. I jumped out of the back seat and raced to my mom, chanting, "WE KILLED COFFEE! WE KILLED COFFEE!" in a sort of sick sing-song childish euphoria that I am still somewhat disturbed at. Mom told me to hush, and then took me inside. And that was the end of that--until about 10 years later, at the age of about 16, I recalled the details of this story and spent an agonizing night crying over the misfortune of Coffee, and my role as accomplice to the Doggy Murderer. Seriously. But I'm over it now. Although I'm still somewhat creeped out at myself for being so happy. I would like to have done a psychological analysis of Paloma, age 6.
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One more story:
At about the same age, I was again home alone with my dad. I was baking and cooking delectable treats on my Playschool Stove when I thought, "Hey! Wouldn't it be fun to actually light a fire in this stove?" So I rummaged through some junk drawers, found a Chesapeake Bay decorative candle, and took it to my dad, requesting that he light it. I don't really know why he lit it; maybe he was really tired or something, but he did (My dad is really not as careless and insensitive as these stories imply. All these stories just happen to catch him at these times).

I joyously took the candle back to my room, stuck it in the stove, shut the door, got bored, and left. I rejoined my dad in the living room and sat on his lap while we watched TV. Minutes later, we were interrupted by a loud BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!

So of course, dad threw me out of his lap, jumped out of his chair, and ran to my room where my Playschool Stove had completely caught on fire. I'm not really sure how he put the fire out, but he did. There was a nice big section of the wall that was somewhat charred, and to top it all off, the fire burned a patch of hair off the head of my sister's teddy bear. She's still bitter.
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Also--I was such a strange child that my sister used to pin me to the ground and try to cast the demons out of me. I was just having a grand old time, but I probably would have, too, if I were her. One doesn't quite know how to react to a child who speaks like PeeWee Herman/Face Jr. and runs around the house climbing walls and putting on one-man re-enactments from Disney death scenes.
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On the same lighthearted note, Joanna told me some hilarious pet stories last night that must be shared with the world:

1. The Paralyzed Gerbil--This gerbil was paralyzed on one side of the body, so it just ran around in circles. That's the only way it could get anywhere. Just going round and round in circles until it got there...
2. Dissected Mice--Jo's mother used to make her and her brother catch mice in mousetraps and dissect the little critters (snapped necks and all) on the kitchen counter as science projects. Her mom's a vet.
3. Runaway Hamsters--When the family was out of town, a neighbor was charged with caring for the hamsters. Unfortunately, they escaped in Jo's room, so the guy just shut the door and would occasionally sprinkle food in random places throughout the room during the whole week. The family came home to chewed cables and cracked-open sunflower seeds scattered about.
4. Kermit/Lazarus and the Rubbermaids--Joanna had a little water frog that she named Kermit. One day, Kermit disappeared. Joanna cleaned the entire aquarium and put everything back in. A few months later, Kermit reappeared, so they renamed him Lazarus. Then Lazarus disappeared again. Another few months later, Lazarus' decayed body was found among a stack of rubbermaid bins. Guess he wasn't so lucky after all.
5. The Peeing Square--Jo's dogs have a specific square in the backyard that they are allowed to pee in.
6. The Shooting on Teen Challenge Campus--Jo's father apparently hates squirrels. One day, on the campus of Teen Challenge, he saw a terrible little squirrel outside doing something destructive, so he took out his shotgun and proceeded to shoot the little thing through the window. It didn't die. Just left a trail of blood throughout the campus...
7. Tumor Hamster--This hamster obviously had a tumor. Jo's mother dissected the tumor in its throat to make sure that was the cause of death. Apparently it was white and bloody.
8. The Fertilized Gerbil Garden--With a tiny shovel in hand, Jo was instructed to go and bury her dead hamsters and gerbils in the garden, so as to fertilize the crop. Must have made for some tasty potatoes.

Thoughts About Unicorns

People in church are always talking about how excited they are to meet Jesus, or how they're "ready to be with the Lord." They make it sound as if Jesus is going to meet us at the heavenly gates riding a unicorn and say, "Hey thought you'd never make it! You're just in time for the 3-winged race. Those seraphim are really going to crush the cherubim into the dust." Then we will ride with Jesus across a meadow made of cotton candy clouds while giant chocolate doves fly overhead.

When they say this, I always nod agreeingly, pretending that I feel the same way. Truth is, I am terrified at the thought of meeting Jesus.

Sorry if that sounds un-Christian-like of me, but it's the truth. Don't get me wrong--it's not so much the thought of dying or death that gets me--I just cannot understand how somebody would not cower in fear at the thought of meeting the creator of the universe face-to-face. Now I know how Moses felt when the Bible said he hid his face because he was afraid to look at God. I think I would have peed my pants. Or fainted. Or maybe died. At the very least, someone would have had to come up the mountain to find me writhing in a fetal position. It says that after Moses came down with the stone tablets, people were afraid to even look at his face because it was so radiant from seeing just the backside of the glory of God. Wow. Does that not blow your mind?

Even in Isaiah's vision, he pretty much freaks out at the realization of God's holiness and his own unholiness. I would, too.  I say I long for heaven, but it is like an expectant and hopeful terror. And I wonder why this scares me so much. I think there's something inside us all that thinks, "When God finally sees this awful piece of scum, he's going to give us one look, and with a look of disgust, turn back around." But as much as I say that thought is ridiculous, I still think it. We say we believe we are made new and worthy to be called saints, but I think in reality we don't believe that at all.

It's not like God doesn't already see our depravity, our cowardice, our shame, or our failures. In fact, he knows them better than we do. And that's a scary thought. But it's also a breathtakingly beautiful thought. The thought that even though he has plucked around in the mire and sludge of our lives, he will still be waiting expectantly for us in heaven with the greatest love we have never experienced on earth. It scares me how good God is.

But I have a feeling when I get to heaven, all that fear will be gone. I have a feeling that when that time comes, I won't have time nor capacity to fear because I will be filled with an awe I can't even imagine.