Pat Daneman
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Another Story
That’s a story for another time—how Marie and me got trapped
in the playground—backed against the chain link fence—by a pack of dogs,
ugly, stinky, snarling strays that never wagged their tails, ganged against us
just waiting for one of us to try something that would be the signal for them
to attack. All the while cars going by on the boulevard, sun shining, outside the fence
a normal day, the one we’d walked out of to swing on the swings,
climb on the monkey bars, drink the rusty water from the water fountain.
A story for another time, the dogs. The story I’m telling you today
is just about how that morning we made our first communion—walked down the aisle
at St. Francis dressed like Barbie brides, confessed and pure, hands glued together
in prayer, knees red from kneeling, Body of Christ melting down our throats.
Then off to breakfast at Links Log Cabin, where our families went for every occasion, our
mothers—sisters—sitting by each other in Jackie Kennedy dresses and Easter hats. Our
fathers at both ends of the long table, along each side grandparents, brothers,
great-aunts and uncles, more cousins. The men smoking cigars, the kids sneaking
the sugar cubes, paying no attention to crazy Uncle Robbie’s telling us that eating sugar
gives you worms. After that the drive to Elmhurst, Marie’s big house,
where she pulls me into her bedroom with the canopy bed and says her mother
told her my mother and father are getting a divorce. I think back over the last months.
Me getting ready for communion, studying sin—my list of sins I was keeping
to make a good confession—I stole a penny gum from 7-11, I stayed up an hour
reading in bed, I hate my brother. Divorce is a sin, Marie says. Then she says lets go
for a walk and we go out and across the street, down the block to the playground.
We’re out of our veils, still wearing the white dresses and shawls.
One of my white socks is slipping toward my ankle. In the playground
we play a game of hopscotch, she wins, we swing, we climb. Out of nowhere
the dogs—filthy, black, brown, hard—I climb the fence, quick, I don’t care
if anyone can see my underpants. I leave Marie behind and that is another story.
Kiss
I want that kiss—the one that starts
at my mouth but doesn’t stop
until it’s untied my shoes
and unbuckled my belt. That kiss
that tastes of purple jam
and sweet wind blown in
from California. I want that kiss
that spreads me like wings, that stops
a song on my lips. That kiss I know
is happening at this moment—
at the top of a subway stair,
on a secondhand couch in a garage apartment,
confident, wet with breath. A triumphant,
difficult kiss—between men, between women.
I want that kiss, wolves drawn to the edge
of the light, waves crashing
in darkness. I want that kiss
torn from the lips of a stranger.
I want to paint my lips pink
and print them all over
the shocked white face of the moon.
"Another Story" first published in The Naugatuck River Review.
Bio
Pat Daneman has published poetry and fiction in The Spoon River Poetry Review, ThePedestalMagazine.com, Blood Orange Review, Inkwell, The Cortland Review, Fresh Water, Indiana Review, and other print and on-line magazines. In 2009, my poem “Thanksgiving,” published in The Apple Valley Review, was selected for the Best of the Net Anthology. I have a master’s degree in creative writing from Binghamton (NY) University.