as sweet without the bitters,
or, so they say:
the empties,
the hollows,
the stills.
the hollows,
the stills.
waiting at the red and noticing
the windows of all the cars around me
are closed up tightly and tinted black
so no faces can be seen, no sounds uttered
from drivers or sound systems,
just the steady beat of the bass coming
from beneath the dash and backseat of my car,
and the rhythmic perpetual tick of the turning signal;
or, going to the gym,
exchanging little else save
smiles and early morning greetings:
“Good morning!”
“Great class,”
“See you Wednesday,"
then packing up in the locker room
and leaving,
unnoticed by everyone but the lady
hired to clean up after
these women who refuse to remove
their own hair clogs from the drain.
this stillness, both saddening
and meditative;
necessary.
in these moments,
images speak to me more than
tongues, lips, palates,
create a backdrop for future memories:
i scan the rooms and spaces, splintered three-sixty,
over and over;
find calm, quiet,
absence of negativity,
solemn, imagined familiarity
of future death-bed moments,
inevitable,
or palpable familiarity of night-bed moments,
sustained.
i back-drift into
cynicism,
loneliness,
and Missing,
with Whack-A-Mole guest appearances
of delegated positivity,
transferred to me erstwhile,
in passive osmosis,
from old alpha females,
"527"s—
(arguable) leaders
of the pack.
and the sweets,
oh goodness me,
the sweets:
“i need sugar…”
[pause]
“real sugar, or sugar like love?”
“both.”
the sweetest of sweets possess both me
and a newness
injected with prospect
and possibility,
distant but graspable.
the sweetest of sweets,
never as sweet without the
bitterest of bitters,
bitterest of bitters,
or, so they say:
the empties,
the hollows,
the stills.
. . . . . .
©erika s. haines 2014
