BrockaArt, Poems, Short StoriesLeave a Comment

An archeologist digs beneath. 

He grabs a bone and brings it to his nose, smelling the soil it lain in for years. It is too familiar to be so old. 

He is reminded of a box in his attic full of lightbulbs. They were missing their metal caps and filaments. Placed in the box upright, one could take them for bulbous glasses which would cut the mouth if used to drink from.  

He saw those empty bulbs as telling him to fill up with his own ideas. Why was he excavating for the past, seeking out others? 


Lithe and leisurely 
she stretches 
others watch her 
she hates being watched 
her own self-consciousness 
are they aware of this? 
In the gym locker room, there is a very large, naked black woman completely unencumbered by other ladies around. She brings her face right up to the mirror glass, almost smooshing her nose; so close she can only see the sides of her cheeks peripherally. The stretcher walks behind her, never seeing her own image. The mirror sees the one who loves to be seen.  


There is high anxiety around a court case. A file box of folders was found sitting in the sand on a beach -as if a message in a bottle; left to fade in the summer sun. These new materials were submitted by the prosecutor at the last minute. The defense stands up and waves his arms wildly, screaming, ‘It’s inadmissible. These papers were washed up out of nowhere.’ The material in the box is entirely relevant, but it has no provenance. Free information, but somehow unworthy.  

Antonia Showering, We Stray, 2020

A diner extends an arm out to the waiter passing by. Attend to me please, this silent gesture implies. The waiter is hurried during brunch and finds the appeal irritating. His supremely fake smile acknowledging the wave pacifies temporarily. Why is the waiter in this job then, if the demands don’t suit his disposition? When he’s on the floor, he’s on stage. His every move is being watched. He silently loathes being seen wiping down a table. This high-end place pays abundant tips and networking with the regulars can potentially move him beyond these restaurant walls. There is not a day he doesn’t go home weary and tired to the bone. He has no business ideas at the moment and will wait it out.  


Summer sleep lays her head on the cold side of the pillow with one leg out from under the thin cover. Fan blades speed above steadily, singing one to sleep with their ambient whirl. She dreams wildly.   

She couldn’t think of what to write; she wrote what she was shown. Thanks for playing along. 


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *