Alone
Sitting at the party I notice how thin all the women are in their shift dresses and sandals. Their arms and legs as fat free and emaciated as wounded birds. The breeze blows the mosquitos west away from lawn tables and the barbecue. The man manning the grill wears pants printed with the American flag. He taps my fingers as tries to sell me on ribs, grizzled and glistening with fat and sauce, the smell tempting, but I stick to chicken. That feels predatory enough. No one drinks much, and the desserts are buzzed by bees and wilting in the warm sun. No surprise. I find a couple I know and love. I sit close so I can feel safe. I’m drinking a cocktail from a can and debate what desserts I should choose. I don’t belong here. I’m a Democrat that talks to the dead and does my own gardening. I don’t spray dandelions or other imperfections. Rather I relish how they lay across the lawn like rows and rows of sun emojis. I have no grandchildren, children, pedigreed dogs, horses or even a husband. I don’t want to be an arrogant poet `~type, but I’m certain no one here will mouth the word death. I feel as if I’ve woken up in another world, climbed over a wall, and everyone is pretending to be real. Raised right, I know you can’t just cut to the chase in a conversation, ask about the best sex they ever had or what’s their biggest secret, what makes them feel alive. They all feel they’ve earned what they’ve got and they’re not going to let go. I’m afraid too. Afraid of dying before I’m dead. Yet this thinking keeps me destined to die alone. I’m looking around for the one other person at this party who would like to take their clothes off and swim in the coolness of the creek. We could float on our backs, hold hands, and stare at the sky, white with billowy clouds of possibility—dog, airplane, bird.
~ Andrea Pierceall
(she read this last week at the writers' party at Suzy's. I might subtitle it "why I moved back to the Bay Area" but hey, it's her poem. And haunting, don't you agree?)
