Death is slowly stealing my father away
In heartbreakingly small increments
Each day steals a bit more of him
His voice is almost all gone now
All I have is the memory
Of things he has said,
The voice speaking-
Saying his words
Is my own
Eve Tselepatiotis is an experienced distance and online education administrator, educator, writer, non-profit manager, and is a former editor of Oyez Review. She hopes in her writing and photography to express beauty and honesty, and to combine these creative interests with her hopes for a better and more understanding world.
When it comes to choosing
from more than one pain,
tears emerge from secret places;
belief in oneself is eroded
by the smallest differences.
They all seem to come from
the same place, carrying similar
lonelinesses. The mind and heart
suffer attacks of an elaborate grief
that is beyond all choosing,
all available rules of choice
and exclusion. The tears
come forth again, against
your wish, even as you feel
weak and alone, while the world
moves on its old road
of forgetting all that is close
to you, including those
much-diffused tears of a while ago.
Alien eyes suspect the story…
My boss accused me of stealing his turtle soup.
Didn’t do any investigating. Just automatically pointed a finger at me like he’s some goddamn false accusation robot.
Apparently, he stayed up all night cooking it and he couldn’t wait for me and Will to try it. This morning he handed the Tupperware to me, went into Mr. and Mrs. Quin’s guest bathroom to snort arsenic, came out a few minutes later, and bam, no soup.
He went on this tirade. “How could you steal, especially here at the Quin’s house? We’re guests!”
“No, we’re not,” I said and laughed. “We’re their house painters.” …
I started to refuse small objects. I wanted to subtract
anything that smelled too much like life. Even mochi,
or the coral candy, pink rice paste
and their lime green counterparts.
The luxury would return to my body,
stomach acid transforming to zinc.
I’d be like soil, with neither weeds nor flowers.
Now, only birds can grow out of the earth.
This is what can be observed as miraculous.
The art of nutrients,
growing without escape.
Warren Buffett said,
‘we sleep, under the shade
of trees someone else planted,
a long time ago.’
I agree, I think surplus
has always been a very human problem. …
Harlow & the Whitest House in the World
“Like the family in Bombshell, Harlow’s mother and stepfather built a garish mansion with Harlow’s money. The two-story, four-bedroom house had a French interior, and outdoor pool with two dressing rooms. Furnishings alone cost $25,000 and included a walk-in refrigerator and polar bear rug. Harlow called it a ‘half-paid-for car barn.” Adjoining her white-on-white bedroom was a sitting room filled with Harlow’s favorite books. Who would believe she read them?” — Bombshell, David Stenn
You want a tour? The lawn is deeply grassed and my pebbled feet (size 3) sink in. Yucca spikes up against the grillwork fence and half-potted pampas grass. Mansions are tombstones, thin columns with fire tips. The hibiscus cold with its dead-white petals. Everything is white — the moon, the lily pond in its somberness, the hoot owl between the quaking aspens. I watch through sheer curtains. The phone rings again as Mother Jean floats from the bath, hair in a towel, the elder Harlow, a steamy Nefertiti, footsteps on a stair, thoughts shaded by overhanging trees, limbs quiet as a riverboat gliding over the bay’s nerveless quivering. Follow me. I take silky reptilian steps that do not disturb the Georgian façade. I light a cigarette. A patio door has been left open, and so let’s tiptoe into the quiet house. Night lamps cast silvery nets and try to catch me. My foot wobbles. I’ve been drinking. The white carpet is pale quicksand. White tassels, white bear rug. The stillness of death, which are the wages of sin. Baby, I need to see you, Mother Jean calls. Coming, Mama. I sit on the love seat. I feel her hands around my throat. Laughter bubbles inside me like strange fish somersaulting. The bathroom itself is a guest room with wrappers on the water glasses and an ermine toilet lid. The faucets sparkle, but we won’t go in there. I can’t quite scrub away Mother Jean and her husband performing fellatio in the tub. No one believes these books are mine but how else can I escape. …
Subject: the dog
I want you to know that the dog is not dead and it’s on its way to a full recovery.
When I found it, the dog had been run over by a single Lexus SUV wheel. I was at the trails on Mount Fester (I’ve gotten more into hiking, on the suggestion of my new therapist, since our split), which are usually empty on a weekday morning, and a car happened to be backing up as a woman happened to be walking her dog, and I happened to be exiting the trail. …