10/12/2017 Poetry by Emma LeeShe could have stepped out of 'Beetlejuice' She's wearing a hairstyle last seen in the eighties: short bob, half-bun, fringe all fashioned from a fading perm. Black socks under navy slingbacks. The white stripes on her black trousers aren't narrow enough to be trendy but not quite wide enough to say clown. An off-white jersey turtleneck is covered by an burgundy bomber jacket in faux silk. Her fingers are unadorned but she has gold stud earrings and a single gold chain. She sits ramrod straight, smiles everytime she speaks with a voice that could cut glass. Her younger companion is not a zany Michael Keaton but a bearded man in a holly-leaf green polo shirt and black jeans, rucksack at his feet. He's relaxed, elbows on table, sipping coffee, not moved to say anything. He watches her. She leaves with him. He walks straight ahead but she glances back as if checking she's not left something behind and raises her hand in a gesture that could be a wave. There was no creeping fog or looming storm I thought I'd locked my car doors. I worked on an industrial estate, the only people there were fellow workers. I needed petrol. My car was my safe place, away from my children, a space where I could think. My joy. I washed, polished and maintained her. I went to pay for the petrol. The cashier told me to stand aside. I was about to argue. He served the next in line and the next. But no one left the shop. A dark car pulled in front of mine, blocking her exit. Police in Kevlars emerged. The cashier took my keys from my hand. My car lights flashed as they unlocked. A dark shape was hauled from the back seat. I saw the glint of an axe. This book will never be dusted The book might be closed, but unrequited love lives on. His aloofness was shyness, the aftermath of guilt about failure to protect his sister, the responsibility of a large estate weighed heavy. He needed tenderness. A slow burn of a long affair. Every woman is conditioned to fix a man, soften the rough edges of an outline sketch into a detailed oil painting and hope he stays in his frame. Can a real man measure up? Unrequited love is still painful even if the subject is not real. I open the book again. Getting Close to Yosemite’s Nature There’s no Gideon Bible in the forest-dark room of rustic furniture in a wooden lodge called "Maple" on Yosemite’s valley floor. A mule deer and two fawns could be idols, separated from us only by a pane of glass. Opening it would let in squirrels and bugs. Mountain lions keep away from things that don’t smell like prey. Bears are too busy figuring out the locks on the dumpsters that the staff change periodically. They live in air conditioned rooms, views obscured by patterned glass so they are not tempted to worship the natural backdrop to their business. The deer find the patio is grassless and move on. Bio: Emma Lee's most recent collection is "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, UK, 2015). She co-edited "Over Land, Over Sea: poems for those seeking refuge" (Five Leaves, UK, 2015), reviews for 4 poetry journals and blogs at http://emmalee1.wordpress.com Comments are closed.
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