Empty Arms
for Aunt Pat,
After “These Arms Are Mine” by Otis Redding
The cherry-red Victrola is an open suitcase, turning a record on the table,
the stylus skates, carbon crackles, our souls amplified
with the resounding voice of the King of Soul.
Moving Aunt Pat and me to sashay,
dressed in tomato-red raincoats, our Baccarat crystal slippers clinking
parquet, our arms holding each other—away from each other,
in limbed elongation, taut strings pegged along
the neck of double bass. Otis Redding’s arms holding us,
tears wept from a medallion molded with cherubs
keying an organ’s chords. Dry in waterproofing,
we dined in classy restaurants attired in casual garments, shared
glasses of sanguine wine and platters of wistful meats.
Otis Redding’s tenor shielding us from bleak skies crying
under the range of a bubble
umbrella. When Aunt Pat was diagnosed, an electric guitar picked
against my denial, dressing its guise in gowns and wigs
we’d wear to balls escorted by bachelors who adored
us. In hospital, I rubbed coconut oil on her milky countenance
her delicate hands. Held her hand, my sweater sodden,
excoriating my incompetent, infirm, indigent arms for
not being nimble enough to hold her while the instruments
bled. It’s no use mopping up the puddles, I said,
when the warden slunk in with a mop.
And no matter how many times I changed
my sopping socks and saturated boots in the interminable
interludes afterwards, my feet wouldn’t dry,
my arms would pine for Aunt Pat, and I’d die
to hold her soul, as she held mine with her song.
The Suitcase on a Train
For Troy
The tunnel echoed with his offer to help with the suitcase I’d hauled
from Los Angeles to Australia and lugged up the languorous
slope, slogging the tons I’d been dragging, kilometers
to Central station.
With chartreuse signage glitzing overhead, he snagged my suitcase
with deft alacrity, as if it was filled with paper shreds when instead
it was filled with books, and instead of reading, I listened
to the tracks which wheeled him here.
While the train railed along, and the announcer informed
passengers to disembark, I learned about the lines
stationing him at unmapped destinations.
Just forty-five minutes had journeyed, when he moved
my suitcase from the aisle to between us, his course
hands gripping the handle like he wanted to protect
it from damage, insure it against loss.
Outside, green terrain planed, kangaroos grazed, the yellow
barbs on Banksia trees pointed skyward, he pointed
out Mount Tibrogargan, how it was gorilla-like.
As my eyes roved over his blond buzz cut, the ridges
in his brow, stubble prickling his opal jaw, and the Lithium
grease imbedded beneath his fingernails, I felt his gentleness ease
the charge of my excess cargo, and
the lot ladening me,
lifted.
Unbridled
I ride hyperbole on the back of a Thoroughbred in the stirrups of indecision,
attired in midnight-blue jeans, or, a lace corseted dress, shod in vegan
cowhide boots. Construct sentences with language traded in the streets,
bartered from back alleys, on loan from an artist’s œuvre. Written
with. One. Word. Sentences. Beginning with and.
And running on, leaking splices, my fingers blotted in blue ink.
Trot by Gertrude Stein, whose purposeful mien
implies: “Sentence is a sentence is a sentence is a sentence.”
Eddies of alliteration trail behind me in accordance
to assonance with consideration to consonance:
characters colloquy, narratives braid. Blond locks bobbing,
I steer near Aristotle plucking a lyre, tetrachords, tings on a wire,
who tosses me grapes from his vine of logic. My horse snorts,
his muzzle trembles, his back steams my thighs. We gallop
through a meadow budded by self-doubt, riding unbridled,
by-passing darlings, I’ll no doubt, murder later,
and wadded infants thrown in water. Elizabeth Bishop flags
us down, waving a black and white flag, hands over
red-handled scissors, smiles a sun-lit smile, her well-versed eyes dimmed
by the blade of shade below the brim of her straw hat.
My horse smells of must and peat. He drinks coffee from the trough.
I smooth his chestnut coat, the beige island along the bridge
of his nose. German Shepherds slumbering under the parasol
of an elm tree, stir. Larks preen their striated plumage sitting on the fence.
I collect the babies bathing in the bathwater. Dry them, milk them.
Reeds clump paddocks, rushes bristle, dandelions orb. Enough horse shit.
Ass in saddle, I fire up my computer and rein in the work.
Kathylynne Somerville began writing with plays and screenplays and was fortunate enough to have a few plays produced, and few scripts optioned. Since then, her pen has been drawn to poetry and fiction, and at present she is busting her guts penning her first novel. She has not forgotten what she has gleaned from screenwriting and utilizes visuals, subtext, and subtlety wherever she can implement them.
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