Mark Masland: Jobs and Lovers, Evoking Jeanne Moreau
Jobs and Lovers
I
I’m cleaning nights at a church
of the same religion I was taught
by Dad, a modest preacher.
I took the job to support
my now exwife, with whom I
once shared a life—at least
an apartment—but now only
a dog named Moses. Chaos
and the cleansing of toilets
gives way to silent hours,
weeks, which only more flushing
answer. I pull from the cart
the trash the last guy left:
the bag swollen with dirty
napkins and banana peels.
At the bottom I notice
an empty bottle of vodka
and try to recall if it’s mine.
II
You knocked on the glass door,
light on blonde hair too angelic—
a medieval portrait of Mary.
I checked locks; you stomped
your cigarette on the stoop.
Before you left, after dark cinemas
and churning bright carousels,
you taught me to put on my shirts
from the inside out, but I still stretch
them when I pull my arms through.
III
After cutting two hours
to worship at a Zendo,
I rush-clean bathrooms,
mop floors, scrub breathless
to catch up, but attempt
to leave my newfound
Buddhist calm intact.
I cut the lights, but then I
remember my jacket, run
trembling to get it from the
supply closet in just this
bleach-stained tee-shirt,
afraid of the god who
raised me, or that he’s
a pretty thought as absent
as she is. I drive to my apartment
in restless contemplation
of salvation that comes with
mopping sanctuary floors.
Evoking Jeanne Moreau
She carries her idols in her pocket
like they’re still here, her mom
and sister who died before she’d grown.
She feels closest to God when
she’s hiding from cops, climbing
building walls in Camdentown.
I asked her to be careful, didn’t
try to slow her down or boss her around,
only keep her from falling too fast.
But after all, loving is the only thing
we both know as well as breathing,
So we were barely friends before
we slept together. I must admit, I
needed a light and she was a bonfire.
Safety is not her game, she’d rather
stop time and look into my eyes with
a longing only lovers know, and dress
in my tee-shirts and make me chase her
down crowded streets. But she always
waits in dark alleys for long kisses.
Drunk at midnight, she fancies herself
an actress, and she’d rather saunter
down foggy, lamplit streets, smoking
a cigarette, boyish as Jeanne Moreau,
swinging her hips in her white cotton
dress—hair dyed red and cropped,
eyes as vacant like Marilyn Monroe.
Mark Masland was born in New Jersey. He has a BA in Fiction/ Creative Writing from Lycoming College in Williamsport, PA. His work was included in the 2008 edition of the college’s literary magazine, The Tributary. He currently lives in Binghamton, NY.
