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man who’s his own wife births his twin through his belly button. For months, he thought it a cyst. Fistula. Fir tree germinating in his spleen. He fathermothers this shriven boy, fine as a walnut lung. With equal parts sweetmeats and firm touch, he bathes this babe in a spoon—wee, webbed blood of living kin. Nights, the man daubs his nipples with tea bags, lays a damp cloth on his eyes. He tugs the left swirl of his mustache and wonders aloud: Is he famished? Is this fullness? When he kisses his own hand, his wife strokes his cheek.
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harlie didn’t show for work today. They called. I didn’t know where he was beyond this morning when we woke at the same time, facing each other, our feet hooked together beneath the covers. He looked at me through half-crimped eyes, smoothed my hair, said, “How are you still so sexy with your retainer in?” Which made me laugh, made him laugh— and the sun was coming in behind his head, through his eyelashes. He sent one text though, Don’t worry Jules. I’m fine. Just done. You understand, right? Love you for whatever it’s worth. And I wonder what it is.
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I think it is in the terrarium and the turtle swallowed it. I was watching him swim lazily around his enclosure yesterday. I had to lean forward in my wheelchair to see his eyes. He knew I was watching him. Was he wondering why a seven-year-old child was peering at him so wistfully? He swam toward me and turned his head. I think he understood and I was glad.
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hear a clock ticking faintly but I cannot find it. I ask my father if he hears it too and he shakes his head. He looks tired and sad.
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he gringo missionaries sipped Jamaica in the kitchen, commenting on the drink’s lack of sugar. Isis anticipated Agustin at the door and let him in discreetly. “Why are they here?” “To see what it means to be poor,” she whispered. “Tell them it’s puta mierda.” “No, me amor. We are feliz y contento despite our poverty.” “Feliz y contento? PUTA y MIERDA!” The gringos didn’t know mierda, but they knew puta. They thought he had called her a whore, and they smiled inside to have witnessed machismo firsthand. Another cheap souvenir for the collection. The translator did not bother to clarify.
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t the drive-thru window, I ordered a salad. “Today’s special is the Bacon Temptation with fries.” This girl’s offer was so enticing I ordered the burger instead. I paid, and when she returned my change her fingernails scratched my palm like ketchup packets. Instinctively, I squeezed them. I apologized profusely for my seeming flirtation. “It’s alright.” She handed me my dinner. “It’s not me you’re after. Everything you came for is right here, in the bag.” I parked beneath the Temptation Burger mural of contented cows chewing in an open field. I unwrapped my burger and masticated along with them.
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ernie shrunk a foot when he signed the divorce papers. He crawled into his parents’ vast basement and assembled model airplanes while his mother watched Jeopardy upstairs. Planes littered the floor. Bernie built a knee-high airport, runways splaying down the hallway. He slid from one wall to the other perfecting his tiny world, imagined racing down the terminals. Tiny trees grew at the airport’s entrance, surrounding a molded plastic statue of a soldier throwing a grenade. Bernie built benches where tiny men and women sit next to each other. They watch the planes come and go but never fall in love.
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he new bedsheets. They required an entirely different vocabulary from my dreams. Suddenly, the language of my dreams turned formal—“yes, sir” and “no, ma’am,” “I do believe I shall,” no slang. Men now wear hats, not caps but real hats with brims. Colors have become darker and less defined—very film noir. More blues and blacks, fewer greens. No pink. I wear dresses (imagine that!) bordered with lace. On a horse, I would probably ride sidesaddle. Fog swirls in at odd times of the day. And I no longer dream of my dog but of a bird I don’t have.
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e picks up the last box and stands listening. This now-empty room was once the nursery, then playroom and finally office. The handyman comes tomorrow to patch holes and paint, the buyers move in Thursday. The echoes—crying, laughter, music—are already fading. Then he sees it: the earring lost when Katie was eight. A goofy, costume-jewelry cat she’d cried over for days. He studies it carefully. If he sends it, she’ll just toss it into some dorm-desk drawer. Widening a hold in the drywall, he drops it in, a faint clack somewhere deep in the wall. Turning, he walks out.
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