—I'VE GOT A SONG THAT WILL NEVER DIE

…I hope you have a fantastic weekend, filled with lots of love and laughter.

…In about an hour, I’m going to be on a podcast reading and talking about my story, “Haiku On Skin” which appeared in the eleventh issue of the print journal F(r)iction (In that issue is Lydia Davis!!! Kwame Dawes!!! and somehow, little ‘ol me.)

…F(r)iction also asked me to be the guest judge for their most recent story contest and I picked the winner last night.  Wish I could share it with you, but it’s still confidential.

                               

                                             Haiku on Skin

         She wants it to be yesterday, last year, the night of their honeymoon, with the taste of nectarines dripping on his lips, the night outside their hotel window revealing a shy, gunmetal gray moon.  He had been as gentle as she’d guessed he would be, boyish almost in the furtive way his hands roamed her skin, drawing out swaths of goose flesh, making up haikus on the spot, writing the words across her ribs and belly.

         The morning after, they wanted to try the French place for breakfast but once there he realized he’d forgotten his wallet.  Back at their room, he found the door cracked open and thought it might be Housekeeping.  When he called out, “Hello,” the thieves rushed him from behind and after several frantic moments of scuffling, her husband was flung from the window.

         Now, on their one year anniversary, she brings in a bowl of nectarine slices, their sweet scent enveloping the room.

         He couldn’t remember anything prior to the fall, not the night before, not even that she’s his wife.  Memories are something he can’t make now and she’s learned to work around that, to focus on the essence of him, the man she fell in love with and still loves to her core.

Getting into bed, she says, “Scoot over a little.  Come closer.”

         “Why?” he asks.

         She bites off a chunk of nectarine and dabs it across his lips.

         “What are you doing?”

         Naked flat-backed on the mattress, she takes his hand and splays his fingers apart. 

“Write a haiku on my skin,” she says.

“I can’t write a haiku.  Poetry isn’t my thing.” 

His eyes are dull gray dimes, but she’s not ready to give up.

“It’s easy, just three short lines,” she says.

“This is crazy.”

“Come on.  Try,” she says, leading his fingers toward her flesh.  “I’ll help.”

At the touch of her skin, his eyes widen—and in them she swears she can make out a flicker of recognition, like the moon momentarily coming out from behind a passing cloud.