Lavina Blossom
Three
1.
Each act will revolve around if, I announced. The first, stage left, began with a smoking stick held for effect by fingers gripped tightly by blue leather attached to Louise. As act two began a breeze ruffled a stage hand and he signaled that the first player needed a name change. “Consider the sound, especially that second asthmatic syllable.” A weak start, a poor center. Act three weaved and lurched like a drunk. It may be redundant to say the play ended badly.
2.
You said, “Resist all closure, such as box covers, hats, pockets with flaps.” I said, “The laundry has been folded and the closets closed.” You claimed, though, that, even the dead can seep out if agitated, and by fairly minor static, as after a single lightning flash miles away. Once the dishes were done, up rose the moon and down slid the sun. You told me your favorite scent was a wildflower you wished had been shaped more like a trident than a dandelion. As for me, I seemed to be slipping into something comfortable that felt like infinity.
3.
The guests had gone out on the lawn. We extinguished the lights and eavesdropped. I leaned into the cold glass and believed I heard “enclave.” You thought you picked up “entwine.” We gave each other extra credit for three additional possibilities that rhymed. I declared the evening ripe, but you voiced a suspicion it had developed farther and opened a window. Coyotes in the hills yipped excitedly. “They do that,” you said, “when one brings home an evening meal.” Sated, we withdrew to our bed. On the roof, the cautious tread I allowed to be bare feet over tile whispering soft good-byes.
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Lavina Blossom received her MFA in Poetry from the University of California, Irvine. Her poems have appeared in The Literary Review, California Quarterly, Kansas Quarterly, The Paris Review, and other publications. She is currently working on a novel.