All the Confusing Stuff is Background Noise
by Norah Clifford
I worry about my teeth because they’re right there. Ever-run
over by my tongue, compulsively recording every chip
and button of tender gum. I would worry about your teeth
but you’re always smiling. Clever distraction from the fatalities
of daily life. The pine needle path running from the elevator
to our apartment door signals to our unobservant neighbors
that this Christmas, we are trying to find normal.
The woman in front of us in line at Walgreens had to move
aside while her partner ran to get different lights. She had asked
for multicolor; he had brought plain white. But we told her
we didn’t mind waiting – I was too curious to see
if he had gotten it right on his second try. Outside, our teeth
chattered, cutting the rhythm of the wind into triple meter
with sixteenth notes too fast for the saxophone player on the corner
pressing metal keys through fingerless gloves with no hint
of the nervous frenzy tensing my throat. You wanted to put a dollar
in his hat, but we had spent our last on scented candles
and icing from a can and an angel statue with one good eye.
The other was chipped, the parody of a wink. Her yellow hair
snapped off and faded to a dull gray bob. Only her wings
were intact. Gold-tipped ceramic feathers spread across her narrow
shoulders: not mid-flight, but not stationary. Settled on our bookcase
beneath the window, the sunset crests a halo over her head
and her thin-painted smirk threatens that tomorrow’s sun may not
rise, and she resembles a harbinger of death like the ones dormant
in your fairytale books resting just below her on crooked shelves.
Once, I promised you a real life fairytale where we could slay
dragons without lifting a finger and drink potions that prevented
us from crying. You tell me today, that instead we can dance
on the sidewalk to the saxophone and warm each other's hands
in our threadbare pockets, and I can worry about your teeth
and mouth and lips from right here, with you right there.
