Read More: A brief Q&A with Elya Braden
Cold Front
When the cold front hit, icing the breadbasket
of America, the government banned all household
pets. Too much waste! declared the President,
who’d never walked a dog or stroked a cat.
After the collection centers failed, the National Guard,
with blue efficiency, swept through neighborhoods
armed with dog treats and catnip, cages and flashlights,
poking into closets, peering under porches.
In the teeming cities, hordes of homeless invaded
once overflowing shelters. Later, some were spotted
wearing scarves reminiscent of tabby tails,
hands snugged in fur-lined mittens.
Care Bears™ replaced service animals.
Stepping in for seeing-eye dogs
became a popular form of community service.
Exterminators were busy trapping mice.
With no dogs to walk, people stayed indoors.
I heard the little girl next door cry herself
to sleep, her parents shouting in the kitchen.
The little boy across the street gnawed his nails
to the quick. His sister developed trichotillomania,
harvesting her golden hair like wheat. At the pharmacy,
a line around the block for Xanax, Zoloft, Celexa.
Was it growing colder?
At night, I prowl through our home, my ear
tuned for the tinny jingle of our CoCo’s bell,
expecting a gray swish of tail in the corner of my eye.
I lift a bed-skirt in half-remembered anticipation.
I try to knit but can’t stop my hands from trembling.
I wake to a wet nuzzling near my elbow or a 2 a.m. meow,
then realize it’s the contrail of a dream. We toss her litter box,
her pooper scooper, her collar stitched with tiny hearts,
but keep her furminator on the nightstand, make
an altar of her favorite toys. Now, my husband and I
take turns. Some days, he kneels and licks her bowl.
Others, I curl at his feet and purr.
What to Think Of
– after Mark Strand
Think of the palm trees whispering
danger, danger to the wind
the tropical moths bigger than your
small hand whooshing in and out
empty rectangles cut in walls
windows in a colder climate.
Think of the waves rising up
to celebrate the night, clapping
their froth-fringed fingers
on the rocky shore
the sand that singed your toes
now cool with darkness.
Think of the white sheets kneading
your back as you writhe
under the inescapable weight of his
thick body, his knees pinning
the butterfly of you to this mattress.
Think of the steel-wool forest rioting
from his barrel chest. Do not glance
at his face turbulent with drink.
Do not smell his breath, rotten
with cigarillos and scotch. […]
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Milk & Skin
Now, I’m slicing vegetables at the sink
of a suburban tract home kitchen
when She walks in.
Blue jeans and a t-shirt,
tight in all the right places.
And I’m noticing. Not like a white rose
admiring the waxy pink petals
of a nearby camellia,
but like Dracula’s fair Lucy,
newly-bitten, waking
with a thirst for blood.
She’s preparing a cheese plate,
laying out thick orange and ivory slices
like mah jongg tiles, quick and sure,
her slim hand so white
it chimes in porcelain, echoes
a swish of silk kimono. She eyes me,
sideways, all lashes and lids,
asks: Do you like soft cheese?
I exhale a Yes so breathy
it floats to the ceiling,
a balloon exulting in sky. […]
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Elya Braden is a writer and mixed-media artist living in Ventura County, CA, and is Assistant Editor of Gyroscope Review. Her chapbook, Open The Fist, was released in 2020. Her second chapbook, The Sight of Invisible Longing, was a semi-finalist in Finishing Line Press’s New Women’s Voices Competition and will be published in 2023. Her work has been published in Calyx, Prometheus Dreaming, Rattle Poets Respond, Sheila-Na-Gig Online, The Coachella Review and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and have received several Best of the Net nominations. www.elyabraden.com.
“Milk & Skin,” “Cold Front,” and “What To Think Of” were originally published in Calyx, Rattle Poets Respond, and KYSO Flash, respectively.
Read More: A brief Q&A with Elya Braden