Blue Fishnets
Blue fishnets were the in for sixth
grade girls in the sixties. Especially
those with bruised knees and skinny legs
from too much roller-skating across
the slick surface of a glacier-like
garage floor. It was Maurice who
was surprised at my ability to perform
figure eights in sweet succession
as I became an infinity freak, rolling
over cracks until smooth, the way
a river flows to a waterfall. But it was
his son who loved my feet and begged
to untie laces in exchange for three
California green frogs as I sat on rust
colored carpet in his bedroom one day.
There began the fondling of toes,
the understanding of obsessions and foot
fetishes for which I was a supplier of feet,
but the recipient of orgasmic massages
from Joey Frank who danced in the dark
with obsidian hair, who my mother
would have yanked my curls and struck
my cheek with wooden spoons had she known
the shenanigans or goings on that took place
in a town I left too soon, where my heart
was gutted for the very first time, when Maurice
announced they were moving. I miss roaming
hands, the thrill of being eleven and the blue
fishnets my mother hung across the shower
bar after a good hand-washing; removing
all signs of monkey business.
Animal Kingdom
He was the guy
who rolled over
mouthing thank you
prayers after lengthy
sessions between
the sheets. My quarantined
lover who positioned
careful fingers over
every part of me.
A seahorse-man
who made musical
notes and pressed
his heart so deep into
mine until we both became
pregnant with the other.
Bird Through a Window
Yours was a flight into a fractured
light; a wren into the window
already broken─ an imperfect lens
your alibi, though no apology
was given as you somersaulted
towards heaven while I arranged
wild orchids by your side. A path
of glory too bright for any mortal’s
eye for you were seeing rainbows.
I try to imagine your arrival beyond
a grove of poplars, magnificence
awaiting you, a throng of angels
wearing stars like boutonnières
against the moon. Their tearless
benediction confirming you
a child again, while I gather
your things in a half-empty room,
the glass by your bed with its spittle
kiss on the rim. A threadbare screen
flaunts remnants of feathers tangled
in mesh; ironic as a sieve ensnaring
bits of what couldn’t be saved.
Carol Lynn Grellas is a three-time Pushcart nominee and the author of A Thousand Tiny Sorrows soon to be released from March Street Press along with two chapbooks: Litany of Finger Prayers, from Pudding House Press and Object of Desire from Finishing Line Press. She is widely published in magazines and online journals including most recently, The Centrifugal Eye, Oak Bend Review and deComp, with work upcoming in Breadcrumb Scabs, Past Simple and Best of Boston Literary Magazine. She lives with her husband, five children and a little blind dog who sleeps in the bathtub
