I Am Poem
By:Zander Mehran, age 9


I am happy
I wonder how earth started because now one knows
I hear Mrs. Puljiz talking about animals which makes me think of how they lose there home
I see the yellow bee that crashed on the table
I want to be happy for the animals
I am happy
I pretended that there is a big tiger that lept on me
I feel the smooth floor that is hard
I touch the floor that feels hard
I worry about the animals because they might become extinct!
I cry about nothing because I was not sad
I am happy
I understand that the animals lose their homes when we build something
I say nothing because I feel bad for the animals that lose their homes when we build
I dream to have 100 dogs that will like me
I try to keep animals safe from destruction
I hope the animals are safe so that we are safe
I am happy


My Birth

My mother’s father, Samuel Joseph Cawley, died three days before I was born and was buried in a paupers grave in Van Nys, California, alone and still drunk so the embalmer had it easy. My mother went into labor etherized and alone, and, hearing “ it’s a girl”, sighed into her peignoir and turned her back on it all: the dead first boy, the second, another boy, then two girls and then me. A brood mare. She struck a match for her L&M and flicked the ashes in the nightstand drawer it’s white metal smooth and cold. Loyal to her. She slammed it shut when she heard my grandfather’s voice in the hallway. The most important post birth attendant. Bearer of the name and the cash envelope labeled “Olive”. He always wanted her to be free of his son.Telling my father to be kind to her, grandfather gave her money. He said it was so she could leave but really it was so she would stay.
Lucinda Watson

 “The Red Kerchief “Claud Monet

I wanted him to notice me.

It wasn’t that difficult to see what I wanted.

In winter he stayed inside all the time.

Painting. He was.

All the time.

Winter, always a danger to everyone, young and old.

No freedom in winter.

Too much freedom for him.

I wandered by that day wearing red,

A reminding flag of conscience,

I’m waving a shawl of belonging,

frayed and thin. Notice me.

We Call

We Call

 

We call to each other in “fluent transparent animal.”*

I might be gone from the living and this is the

Bardo.

We call, all the souls here with me,

waiting to move on, wanting to move on.

Not wanting to move on.

I am not thinking about breathing for once.

The others here are transparent like the fish tank in Monterey.

I want to say I knew it would be like this

but my lips do not exist just as I forgot how sensitive

they used to be when still alive.

I seem to be in the middle level as high up I see a light

Like a military searchlight it shivers me.

There is no apparent order

No signage

No music or noise

The volume is turned off.

It’s very pleasant here and waiting isn’t wanting.

 

 

*a prompt from Diane’s writing class

Desperate Comprimise

Desperate Compromise

To be honest the other night I pretended I didn’t mind this man was a Trump supporter because he was so handsome and I couldn’t take my eyes off of his mostly craggy face. At 80 his arms did not look too bad either. Though I could not see them, I could see their outline through the crisp blue check of his shirt. It was all I could do to keep myself from reaching across the table and stroking them. “Will it bother you if I tell you I am a Trump supporter?” he asked, as we sat down at a local restaurant meeting for the first time at the suggestion of a friend.

I do not think I even heard his question as I was mesmerized by his arms and found them around me, holding me closely, gently kneading me like brioche dough, though I could still see them attached to his shoulders. I wasn’t  tempted to walk away particularly not without those arms. That’s what shows me just how desperate I’ve become for male companionship.

It might also be that I drank a half glass of wine before walking down to the restaurant to calm my nerves. My nerves need a lot of calming these days. I am monitoring my wine intake. I must or I might just get to drinking first thing in the am before toothpaste. Once I saw my husband grab a half-finished Scotch from the night before’s party and swallow it right down. I always liked his style. For years I remembered that drink with deep admiration and knew I was not up to it.

Well, I am now. I like this Trump supporting man. I like his obvious masculinity, his low testosterone filled voice, and his arms. I think I will take him home and keep him. He could live happily in the freezer.

From time to time I could partially defrost him and have dinner with him quickly before his brain unthawed.

Obsessive Researcher

I am always trying to figure out how to do things faster and more efficiently. Even though I consider myself to be old now I’m still working on the efficiency routine. I should have a clipboard and a pencil and a list of things to accomplish however I have nothing but two dogs that I need to feed and a house that seems to be constantly needing attention. I noticed this morning that rather than making oatmeal and putting egg whites in it I could take a hard boiled egg and chop it up and put it in the oatmeal prior to microwaving it and in that way I would save myself so much trouble because I already had hard boiled eggs in my fridge. So I plopped the hard-boiled egg cut up into the bowl of raw oatmeal and added milk and half-and-half because I am a sybaritic woman and turned it on for two minutes. Then I removed it from the microwave and luckily I was wearing my glasses because the entire thing exploded like a bomb in my kitchen. They were literally bomb fragments on my ceiling made of hard boiled egg. If I hadn’t been wearing my glasses I don’t think my eyes would’ve survived. When this happened it made such a loud noise that I literally shrieked something I haven’t heard myself do ever in my life. I backed away from the microwave with caution thinking it might happen a second time and I had a long debate with myself over whether or not I should eat the oatmeal despite the fact that it had exploded.

 

This is the problem with being an obsessive researcher and an analyst. When unusual things happen 

You stop and think about why did they happen and try to understand what the result of this happening was and what you should do to avoid this in the future.

 

It’s pretty obvious what I should do to avoid this in the future. It was still pretty damn exciting. In my kitchen an explosion that sounded like a 28 gauge shotgun going through the ceiling and all it was was a remnant of a hard boiled egg. That’s my day!

 

 

 

Car Wash 1

Just as I was trying to keep my front tires in alignment on the slightly rickety, vibrating tracks of the car wash I felt my passenger door open and a splash of warm water on my arm and saw a curious pair of smokey eyes in the face of a man of unknown age but of great beauty. I reached over to touch his cheek and wipe some of the water away and he pulled my hand to his ear. “Touch my ear!” (but not in English) he said and electrically we slid through the rinsing and sudsing and and finally the great blowing which opened his door and though he grasped my finger, the baby one, he was sucked out of the car and into the blower and then I was outside and raring to go.