Haiban #5

The last time I saw her she didn’t talk about her aunt, the heiress to all penny-pinching schemes, or how no one these days believes angels with horoscopes. No red herring in the conversation this time. There was almost none. Instead she gave me something that wasn’t gold or silver, wasn’t a ring or anything in the shape of a shark’s tail. She pinned it to my flesh and I’ve been bleeding slowly ever since. As much as I try, I cannot pull it out. At times, the pain is something I can become absent-minded of, but nevertheless, I’m growing anemic, all watery-blue.

old red bicycle
lying in the oblique rain
tell me your rider
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Turks

She made plans to leave him
with the fastidiousness she once used
to assemble her trousseau.
The day hung thick as a grudge.
In the bedroom, he confronted her about the suitcases.
His manner, as always, impudent, his face, deadpan.
Where? As far as Turks, she stated.
He quibbled something
about sending her his dirty laundry
by airmail
and whether there were really spies
on the Midnight Express.

Kyle Hemmings wishes he could play guitar like Dick Dale and sing like Brian Wilson. Then he would be known as Dick Wilson. On some days, he sings in the shower. Kyle works in New Jersey and has few friends.