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An Exposed Thread

An image of G sticks with me:
lying in the beautiful soft pink,
a thread exposed on her lower lip.
An imperfection.
A delicate mistake,
almost beautiful,
revealing the truth concealed by layers
of concealer and foundation.
Something was odd about her mouth,
it wasn’t right…
she was made of resin or wax,
a replica of the woman I love.
Her vacant expression,
the nonsensical sleeping façade,
glasses on like she’d need them for reading
later when the casket was in the ground
and she had become bored of her situation.
G wound’t have been proud of me,
of how weak I felt in her presence,
of how I couldn’t touch her,
couldn’t speak to her,
couldn’t pretend that she was napping,
especially with the thread exposed,
pulled through, pushed into my heart,
anchoring me to this awareness.
I’m haunted by her waxy face,
the rigid opacity of her wrinkles,
the horror of loss.
An image of G sticks with me:
imperfection,
silence.
That shell won’t leave me,
and I guess I don’t want it to.

Written 26 December 2000 in Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “An Exposed Thread” from Muskox vs. Unicorn (Scissortail Press, 2020) 

Original Version:

twenty-two

I keep getting the same image of G in my head. Lying in the beautiful soft pink, a thread exposed on her lower lip, an imperfection. Something was odd about her mouth, it wasn’t right… it looked as though she were made of resin or wax. I can see the vacant expression in her sleeping face. In life she was fully expressive, day and night. It haunts me lately that I couldn’t touch her, couldn’t speak to her, couldn’t touch the casket after carrying it to the car. G would not have been proud of me. She would have been irritated with how weak I was and how I could not comfort Dad and Rita. Now I realize the horror. I ache because I cannot call her. I never called her, but she was always there. Now I have lost my opportunity. I pray I am not so cold to others. That face, the false face on my grandma’s shell will never leave me — I know that. And I guess I don’t want it to.

12.26.2000

part of the chapbook Studies In Loneliness

 

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G

in memory of G, a mystery

Strange woman, you left us
wondering who you were and
why you couldn’t go on.
I waited and waited and still
thought I had more time — these
things don’t happen to me —
the strong always survive —
this should be the fairytale.
It’s not. Your secrets were
your secrets — tiny new pearls
in the oyster of your life.
That mussel was enough for
me. You secrets are now eternal.

Brent and I still made noise
(the irritating chatter you always
hated). We didn’t even try not to,
hoping you’d sit up and tell us
to cut it out. We miss you.

I never found a new gold bug
for you and I am sorry. I’m not
sure I really tried. Probably not.

I do not think I was kind to you,
lovely woman. Reverent, yes.
Respectful, yes. Committed, yes.
But kind…? Dear woman, I loved
you deeply. I hate the days
I put off visiting. I hate that I wasn’t
there at the end for you, though
I know you felt me there —
I pray you were somehow comforted
by that.

When I saw you, you were weak — very weak.
You were artificially alive with tubes and knobs
and gauges and buttons — it wasn’t you in
that shell. I could see you fight; try to get back —
get back to what…? I know you didn’t want this.
Pain…medication…doctors…nurses…anger…tears.

I cried for you — hard. Some of the tears were guilt
(I never did enough). Most was pain — separation.
I never wanted you to go and I almost couldn’t take it.

12.21.2000

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Gold Bugs I

Stop hiding secrets in jewelry boxes
with your finest turquoise pieces,
prized possessions from a vacation,
a former home — I never asked.
Can you see me reach my hand to you,
and still hold too loosely?
Can you feel me slip and turn away?
I am only gone a moment;
I must search for another
rare golden bug we have discussed
for so many hours, silently.
I found one in France,
in the heat of a Provincial market.
I cried when I heard you valued that trinket.
Where should I go next?
Egypt, where they have lovely scarabs?
Maybe I should simply spray a cicada shell,
a false and dazzling interpretation.
It seems important to find these tokens;
they enhance your warm face
and make you smile.
Smile more!
When you do, I feel warm
and I long to search for more bugs.

Notes

Written 4 February 2000 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Gold Bugs I” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

Original Version:

Gold Bugs Pt I
for G, who is always with us

Beautiful and unpredictable woman,
stop hiding your secrets in jewelry boxes
with your finest turquoise pieces – prized
possessions from a vacation, a former home
(I never really bothered to ask).
Can you see me reach my hand to you,
and still hold on too loosely? Can you
feel me slip away and turn away?
I am only gone a moment – I must
search for another of the rare golden bugs
we have spent many hours discussing,
all the while making no sound.
In France, I found one (and cried when
I heard you valued it). Where next?
Egypt, where they have lovely scarabs?
Or should I simply spray a cicada shell? –
a false, but dazzling interpretation.
It seems important to you (and is to me)
that I find these tokens, these treasures.
They enhance your warm face and make you
smile. Smile more – when you do I feel
warm and I decide to search for more bugs.

2.4.2000

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Miracle

for Jennie Lloyd’s baby

Enveloped in darkness —
surrounded by perfect blackness
(the comfort of mother
on all sides)
Grow gracefully, child of
Love — inside your peaceful shelter.

Your mother is special — young and
full of energy and wonderful
thoughts and hopes and you.
Kiss her often, precious child.

Feel the smile you bring
to her face when
your mother sees herself
in you and sees
things she wishes she could be.

Be careful of the world.
Hold tightly the hands
that guide and protect you.
Know when to run home and
when to soar free.

Sometimes parents need
a shoulder to cry on —
welcome that moment
and comfort those who need you.

Be who you know you are.
Don’t let the world hold you back.
You can be whoever you want.
This world is big and is better
now because of you, child of Jennie.

Notes

Written 20 February 2000 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Miracle” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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thirteen

Dust and saltlicks and fuzzy caterpillars. I loved the farm. I often complained about the heat or stickerweed or the heat — such incredible heat. I was secretly relieved and secretly upset when G, with her parents moved into town. Where in town was the garden full of overripe squash and where in town were the cows, anxious for discarded watermelon or cantaloupe rind for dessert. They moved to be close to a hospital — to make certain they would have a place near for death. Poor G, it broke her heart, and us kids would sit around making all kinds of noise and she wanted to cry. Cry now, G, cry. Were off making noises in our own places — we’re grown now. We know you need a little peace — we will be quiet now.

1.29.2000

part of the chapbook Studies In Loneliness

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Shy Child

Spoiled with love and round
His bright wide eyes look in wonderment
The figures to him are blurred and scary
He does not smile

Notes

Written 5 October 1998 in Claremore, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Shy Child” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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On the Balcony

Toast
& strawberry jam,
bit of butter,
3 cups of coffee,
and the latest
poetry journal.
The smell of burnt toast
and scorched coffee
smells like morning.
The balcony is nice
this morning,
despite dead plants
left in pots from summer.
Spring is nearly over
and neglect is everywhere,
my time consumed by
words.
The jam is sweet and
the hum of an idling car
distracts from the peace.

Notes

Written September 1998 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “On the Balcony” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)