Moon Magic in Santa Monica
Never forget the waves.
The lesson of the tides.
That you are a mother.
That always there is another breath.
That probably there is another planet.
Remember the moon.
How it brings us from one wave to the next.
How it glows silver like your ovaries.
Like the magic that is inside you.
Take a seashell into your hands.
Whisper to it.
Chant I love you I love you I love you.
Snip off a strand of your hair.
Place it inside of the shell and seal it shut.
Hold it next to your heart.
Toss it into the sea.
This is an offering.
Dinner parties are always awkward
for me. Always I feel purple
in a room full of neutral tans.
Always I feel polka-dots amongst stripes.
Always I feel messy in the sterile. It’s laughable
that an alien like me is married
at all. Never would’ve guessed that a man
could feel comfortable with my chaos.
Never once did it occur to me that maybe he likes my chaos.
Never once did it occur to me that he tasted sour
in his mouth when the husbands talked purchases
and deer hunting.
That he tasted sour in his mouth
in the man-cave talking trucks and kitchen remodels.
Never once did it occur to me that he was purple too.
That he was desperately hoping to travel back home
to OUR PLANET. Never once did it occur to me
that we had an OUR PLANET. A planet
where we could shed the Stepford masks
and walk around in our alien underwear together.
Never once did it occur to me that he was afraid to ask,
Do you feel purple at the dinner parties too?
I am unable to keep these knives for hands. The way the brushing aside of a stray hair turns to throat slicing. How always after the throat slicing there isn’t enough string and too few needles for all the stitches. And really, I just like you. Really, it’s just that I think you’re pretty great. I keep picturing myself brushing the stray hairs from your face. Your face. Those lips. That smile. I try to stop the daydream just before it turns to nightmare screams. I try to stop all the blood from running down your jaw and across your chest. I don’t want to see all the blood spilling but always I see myself standing there horrified. I see you standing there horrified. Everyone is always horrified. I don’t really see myself, but I see these knives for hands when I look down. Your blood. My knives. Me: a dangerous weapon. Being with me is like playing chicken with a dangerous weapon. This is what happens when I love you. This is what happens to little girls without a Dad. This is what happens when you chase yourself away from yourself and I’m tired of these knives for hands. I’m tired of being tired, of not loving myself enough to love you. Give me a moment, let me slice through my wrists, watch my blood puddle into your blood and just before it’s over, I’ll drop to my knees and beg for your forgiveness.
Azia DuPont is a writer living in Southern California. She founded the small press Dirty Chai in 2012. You can find her online via Twitter @aziadupont or at www.aziadupont.com/writing