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| The Scrambler art-literature-music/arte-literatura-música |
The butter and chocolate ice cream melted first,
and the hamburger patties defrosted,
everything dripped mold or blood
from their boxes, leaving a trail
on the grocery store's shiny linoleum floor.
The milk became a brick, curdled
in its red and white carton.
The food looked fine on the shelf,
but once inside my cart,
it spoiled and bloomed fuzzy green
then crumbled away in a black dust.
Even the greenest bananas wouldn't keep—
they turned soggy with black peels and slipped
through the shopping cart's metal mesh.
Desperate, I picked packets of seeds
but even they grew too fast; rotted
just like the rest of the cart.
My fingernails grew long and fast—
my watch's hands spun like a pinwheel.
I gave up and abandoned the terrible cart
near the check out lanes
stinking with moldy cartons and fermented juice.
Outside, in my meager sundress, I shivered
as I looked for my car, squinting
in the bright screaming cold of winter morning.
My sandals crunched on ice and salt
as I walked among snow mountains
plowed high in the parking lot—
my new long hair flapped in the wind like a flag.
and the hamburger patties defrosted,
everything dripped mold or blood
from their boxes, leaving a trail
on the grocery store's shiny linoleum floor.
The milk became a brick, curdled
in its red and white carton.
The food looked fine on the shelf,
but once inside my cart,
it spoiled and bloomed fuzzy green
then crumbled away in a black dust.
Even the greenest bananas wouldn't keep—
they turned soggy with black peels and slipped
through the shopping cart's metal mesh.
Desperate, I picked packets of seeds
but even they grew too fast; rotted
just like the rest of the cart.
My fingernails grew long and fast—
my watch's hands spun like a pinwheel.
I gave up and abandoned the terrible cart
near the check out lanes
stinking with moldy cartons and fermented juice.
Outside, in my meager sundress, I shivered
as I looked for my car, squinting
in the bright screaming cold of winter morning.
My sandals crunched on ice and salt
as I walked among snow mountains
plowed high in the parking lot—
my new long hair flapped in the wind like a flag.
Shopping Cart
The instructors say to wear cotton—it singes instead
of melts when we stand too close to the kilns. I prefer
polyester. I like my leisure pursuits dangerous—
a hobby that can sink its teeth into me. I do my best
work before it even enters the kiln: cuts of glass jutting,
translucent razors, everything spiky until the kiln ruins
the toothed edges—melts everything into a benign puddle.
My pinstriped-red fingers love the lapidary grinder: half
water fountain, half record player that spins albums coated
with industrial-grade diamonds. While I work, the grinder
flicks glass shards that collect in the pockets of my lungs—
just a few tiny steps away from being a side show glass eater.
It also files my fingernails—I know I’m finished sanding
when they all slope at the same steep angle. The instructors
don’t appreciate my self-destructive tendencies. I think.
It’s hard to read their expressions with their singed-off
eyebrows. Their twin uniforms resemble full-body
oven mitts. When they opened the kiln for the class,
I was disappointed: I hoped the whole room would bend
into a Dali painting. The rest of the class smiled—the heating
unit reflected orange onto their faces like a campfire.
of melts when we stand too close to the kilns. I prefer
polyester. I like my leisure pursuits dangerous—
a hobby that can sink its teeth into me. I do my best
work before it even enters the kiln: cuts of glass jutting,
translucent razors, everything spiky until the kiln ruins
the toothed edges—melts everything into a benign puddle.
My pinstriped-red fingers love the lapidary grinder: half
water fountain, half record player that spins albums coated
with industrial-grade diamonds. While I work, the grinder
flicks glass shards that collect in the pockets of my lungs—
just a few tiny steps away from being a side show glass eater.
It also files my fingernails—I know I’m finished sanding
when they all slope at the same steep angle. The instructors
don’t appreciate my self-destructive tendencies. I think.
It’s hard to read their expressions with their singed-off
eyebrows. Their twin uniforms resemble full-body
oven mitts. When they opened the kiln for the class,
I was disappointed: I hoped the whole room would bend
into a Dali painting. The rest of the class smiled—the heating
unit reflected orange onto their faces like a campfire.
Fused Glass Course
People disappear first—bones nibbled white
by the fish who live there now.
Anemones cuddle in the cabins
until shipworms finish off the wood
and the metal rusts flaky from saltwater.
The gold stays forever—it doesn’t sparkle
down here in the dark.
The ghosts stay too, brooding wavy along the dense floor
(too thick down here to swim). They wish
they could rise like their wails:
those float fast to the surface
like balloons.
by the fish who live there now.
Anemones cuddle in the cabins
until shipworms finish off the wood
and the metal rusts flaky from saltwater.
The gold stays forever—it doesn’t sparkle
down here in the dark.
The ghosts stay too, brooding wavy along the dense floor
(too thick down here to swim). They wish
they could rise like their wails:
those float fast to the surface
like balloons.
Viola
| *Valerie Loveland lives in Austin, TX. For more, check out her website at www.valerieloveland.com |
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Like clear water, my pale skin distorts depth.
The industry underneath, a subterranean network
of wires, seems deceptively close to the surface.
Nurse Needles, in latex and holiday-print scrubs,
pats and presses, hands me a tennis ball to squeeze.
She pinches a rubber-band circumference around
each arm but the blue branches still dodge and sink.
She resorts to tapping my cooperative hand. Vials
finally clink, full, into their metal specimen carrier.
Their polished glass shines like a row of lipstick
tubes in the same rusty shade. While they filter
and sort the sample to reveal my bad habits, purple
slowly pools at the excavation site. The leak spreads.
Sealed in by skin, there’s nowhere to go.
The industry underneath, a subterranean network
of wires, seems deceptively close to the surface.
Nurse Needles, in latex and holiday-print scrubs,
pats and presses, hands me a tennis ball to squeeze.
She pinches a rubber-band circumference around
each arm but the blue branches still dodge and sink.
She resorts to tapping my cooperative hand. Vials
finally clink, full, into their metal specimen carrier.
Their polished glass shines like a row of lipstick
tubes in the same rusty shade. While they filter
and sort the sample to reveal my bad habits, purple
slowly pools at the excavation site. The leak spreads.
Sealed in by skin, there’s nowhere to go.
Blood Sample
Glass chimes to the street when I open
the car door. The seatbelt awarded me
a burned red sash: Miss Car Wreck ’07.
Under the streetlight, my hair shines
with drizzle and broken glass. I don’t
remember changing into this red dress.
The glossy street greets the cop cars
with a flicker of blue and red.
I blow into the cop’s cell phone
as his incredulous lips move without sound.
His flashlight shrieks as loud as ever. My EMT
mouths words emphatically, but his eyes
droop—weary from dealing with wrecks.
The tow-truck driver agrees.
(My newly wrinkled car rides a stretcher too!)
Then to the hospital—a way I’ve never gone
before: a street smeared with ribbons
of light that leads straight to the emergency room.
the car door. The seatbelt awarded me
a burned red sash: Miss Car Wreck ’07.
Under the streetlight, my hair shines
with drizzle and broken glass. I don’t
remember changing into this red dress.
The glossy street greets the cop cars
with a flicker of blue and red.
I blow into the cop’s cell phone
as his incredulous lips move without sound.
His flashlight shrieks as loud as ever. My EMT
mouths words emphatically, but his eyes
droop—weary from dealing with wrecks.
The tow-truck driver agrees.
(My newly wrinkled car rides a stretcher too!)
Then to the hospital—a way I’ve never gone
before: a street smeared with ribbons
of light that leads straight to the emergency room.
Car Crash
Violin’s big sister inherited the family resemblance:
glossy brunette—tiger-eye variance curling
into a pompadour. Key hole waistline curves,
but bigger, more to hug under the chin.
She also sings, thick tones—
fat notes drip, weighted, from her strings
but still light enough to float away.
She stays out of family politics—
broods in alto clef alone.
Not one for hysterics or acrobatics,
leaves the solos to the show-offs.
Viola smoothes knifed edges,
the bottomless grumbles,
melts the varied family into one silk voice.
glossy brunette—tiger-eye variance curling
into a pompadour. Key hole waistline curves,
but bigger, more to hug under the chin.
She also sings, thick tones—
fat notes drip, weighted, from her strings
but still light enough to float away.
She stays out of family politics—
broods in alto clef alone.
Not one for hysterics or acrobatics,
leaves the solos to the show-offs.
Viola smoothes knifed edges,
the bottomless grumbles,
melts the varied family into one silk voice.
Shipwreck