Two by Britney Lipton
A Publix Drunk
I sped through stop signs. I knew when I left late that the light on the corner of seventh and twelfth would be worse than that time it took me twenty minutes to plant one rose, because I was most certainly drunk, and the burgundy merlot couldn’t stop the wind from blowing. That evening, he drank a pale pink pinot, sipping while he watched through the window as I made every attempt to be a shelter for my newly born, fresh cut, red rose. I planted only one.
The light, when it finally turns green, becomes my savior from the blossoming new thoughts of him. They feel light and nonchalant. I’m well aware that the wind he breathes is more like the artificial blue rose that sits on the rim of fruity mixed drinks. I’ve circled the parking lot three times because the world has decided that now is an appropriate hour to stock up on lite dressing and flour that rises in ovens while the rain pounds the world’s windows before the planet relaxes by knocking back drinks after a hard day at work.
Before, when he would bring me yellow roses with red tips, and the light of the sun felt sharp on my skin and the wind of the ocean was passion at my fingertips, I drank bubbly champagne. Even then, I knew that champagne made me sick. I contemplate drinking another bottle as I crouch to choose a heavy blue cheese. A nimble wind carries my cart into another. I rise to mumble my apology, or maybe, to look him in the eye and finally say no.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Underneath the Waterfall
I’ve never walked the rainforest floor, but imagine
that dense soil underneath naked feet
and little jets of sunlight peeping through thick trees
feels nothing like
the shadow cast about me as I walk
through the hall in my house.
I hate how cloudy the popcorn ceiling looks.
I don’t think
it’s like that in the rainforest. It can’t be
because in the rainforest,
it’s layers of trees over trees
where all you can see are moss-covered rocks
making mini mountains over the soil
while listening for the Birdwing butterfly
to fly stealthily overhead, until, suddenly,
without realizing it, you’ve walked to the edge
of a tucked away pond and a rushing waterfall
no one knew existed. There is no foliage
in a hallway whose sole decorations
are customized still images
of a family that doesn’t love each other,
but tolerates living together
because Dad remarried and had new children
and the old kids’ photos are stashed in the attic.
Living
is jumping into a hot spring and swimming
underneath the waterfall.
I sped through stop signs. I knew when I left late that the light on the corner of seventh and twelfth would be worse than that time it took me twenty minutes to plant one rose, because I was most certainly drunk, and the burgundy merlot couldn’t stop the wind from blowing. That evening, he drank a pale pink pinot, sipping while he watched through the window as I made every attempt to be a shelter for my newly born, fresh cut, red rose. I planted only one.
The light, when it finally turns green, becomes my savior from the blossoming new thoughts of him. They feel light and nonchalant. I’m well aware that the wind he breathes is more like the artificial blue rose that sits on the rim of fruity mixed drinks. I’ve circled the parking lot three times because the world has decided that now is an appropriate hour to stock up on lite dressing and flour that rises in ovens while the rain pounds the world’s windows before the planet relaxes by knocking back drinks after a hard day at work.
Before, when he would bring me yellow roses with red tips, and the light of the sun felt sharp on my skin and the wind of the ocean was passion at my fingertips, I drank bubbly champagne. Even then, I knew that champagne made me sick. I contemplate drinking another bottle as I crouch to choose a heavy blue cheese. A nimble wind carries my cart into another. I rise to mumble my apology, or maybe, to look him in the eye and finally say no.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Underneath the Waterfall
I’ve never walked the rainforest floor, but imagine
that dense soil underneath naked feet
and little jets of sunlight peeping through thick trees
feels nothing like
the shadow cast about me as I walk
through the hall in my house.
I hate how cloudy the popcorn ceiling looks.
I don’t think
it’s like that in the rainforest. It can’t be
because in the rainforest,
it’s layers of trees over trees
where all you can see are moss-covered rocks
making mini mountains over the soil
while listening for the Birdwing butterfly
to fly stealthily overhead, until, suddenly,
without realizing it, you’ve walked to the edge
of a tucked away pond and a rushing waterfall
no one knew existed. There is no foliage
in a hallway whose sole decorations
are customized still images
of a family that doesn’t love each other,
but tolerates living together
because Dad remarried and had new children
and the old kids’ photos are stashed in the attic.
Living
is jumping into a hot spring and swimming
underneath the waterfall.
