Ear
I dreamt last night of the yellow house. I dreamt of the yellow floor in the yellow kitchen of the yellow house. My pink upon all that yellow. I tried to breathe, but I had no lungs. I had no eyes with which to see, no heart with which to beat. These were common problems and I was speckled with thirst. I wanted a pint at the public house. I had no mouth with which to scream or drink or legs with which to leave the yellow floor. The woman named Rachel came from the night bar. She stood in the yellow doorway and wept pretty tears from her pretty eyes. I remembered then, what rain was, but the Painter’s head kept bleeding. Clear rain and red rain. It was all the same to me, for I could not see. Rachel coveted me with her soft hands and I wanted to kiss with no lips. I wanted to make love without touching. She carried me outside the yellow house, into the yellow field. She said I was a seashell and laid me down among the sunflowers. The ambulances in the sky were angry and dumped more rain. I wanted to tell Rachel I loved her, but the thunder found the mouth I did not have. Rachel made old, old love to the fire in the sky. The Painter stapled himself for good inside the yellow house, satisfied with his madness. The water from the sky turned me into a birdbath. I was no longer flesh. I was only an infection.
The Rest of the Story
hotter than expected, this July, but as I held your hand, it was cool and mild. we tried to kiss, but you started coughing and from your lips bleed razor clams, valentine sand and a lifetime’s worth of birthday promises. we had slept at the bottom of the ocean for weeks and now we live in a quilted cottage on the shore. I suppose I should be authentic here: I always figured we’d end up with something more. this is how the dead live, then. forgetful, full of wintergreen, constantly singing. I sleep on the sand sometimes and I awaken to hear you murmuring in minor keys, singing things I do not know. please stop with the names, dear. everyone is full of strangers. do you remember riding the train back from Yurakucho? there was a man screaming, saying that he had flown all of these routes before. there are no birds allowed in this poem. let me clear: we are not allowed in this poem. it is not permitted. we are not invincible. simply put: the snow. tonight you sleep in a bed of sand and you are the one screaming: whyever is the water boiling so? I have made you into a paper-doll, good one, and this morning, I try to make love to you in the shower. my hands fuss with the details. they are soaked in wet sawdust and your mouth is quiet now. I place you in a candy dish on our dining room table. I tell you how handsome you are. I sit in the dark and wait for the front door to never open.
Jason Davidson is a poet, fiction writer, playwright and performer. He's written and directed over 200 works of experimental theatre and his one-act plays have been widely published. His poetry has appeared recently or is forthcoming in HAD, Heavy Feather Review, Trampoline, Rawhead, Hobart, SoFloPoJo, Burningword, Troublemaker, and Firestarter, among other journals. Jason lives on California's Central Coast with his husband. Find him on Instagram at @jasonwriteswords.