The Queen of the Forest

The orator stated his case

As he tore the bandages loose.

And the ladies of the royal court

Began to shriek most wretchedly

When the picture window revealed

The king’s well-hidden secret.

And on the steps of the canal

The pretty girls in yellow robes

Danced thrice around the toppled throne

While the queen of the Old Forest

Cast sidelong glances at the prince,

Perched in disaffected silence.

And St. Ignatius was making

Deals with lions in the back hall

While Eusebius turned his head.

Then angel choirs soaked in gold

Saturated the air with grace

Begging only that they be heard.

But surely the king will not come

And the queen will survive the Fall.

Ignatius will woo the lions

And go once more to Antioch

Where the dour prince will find his voice

‘Til the flood comes and takes them all.

A Word About Warmth

It was the first of the month, so, naturally, I was taking my rent to the drop box in the basement of my apartment building. Down three flights of stairs, past the mailboxes, around the corner and through a doorway, down another set of stairs—I came out by the laundry machines and stopped. I felt like I’d just been wrapped up in a loving embrace. And—no joke—I laughed out loud with glee. I seriously considered staying there for the rest of the day just soaking up that soft, loving warmth like a baby in her mother’s arms. But the image was fleeting; after dropping my envelope in the box for “RENT”, I threw on my winter coat and went out into the cold, April afternoon.

Fever Dream

I can barely remember the last time I was sick. But by my estimate the last time I was this achy and sniffly was somewhere around January 11, 2008. I guess I’ve been well overdue for some kind of setback.

The little buggers always catch up with me when I’m down. That’s how I can remember the exact date of my last malady; there was a circumstance (which is of absolutely no importance to me now, and therefore will not be regaled here) that tripped me up around the time of January 11, 2008.

This time my illness arrived on the heels of a particularly surprising phone conversation with my mother. The afternoon was beautiful—one of the first really nice days this month—but I’d been cold all day. Really, I’ve been cold all month…not important. My tears on the phone surprised me, though, and in an agonizingly sparse monologue I let my mother in on all that had been gnawing at me. I haven’t been happy for months; I’ve been battling too much with my self. In a soothing, sage-like sigh I would never have expected from her, she dispelled my demons.

Just a few hours later, though, it all caught up to me. Every dirty doorknob I’d touched, every sneeze I’d walked downwind of, and every glass I’d shared with unassuming germ carriers came back to haunt me. My throat flamed up, my back ached, and my brain felt like it was trying to squeeze its way out of my skull.

After two nights of waking up at 2 to the sound of intoxicated sorority girls classin’ it up below my window, I decided to take something to help me fall asleep…and stay that way for a while. When I finally awoke at 7:30 (a good hour later than usual), I noticed that I’d been sleeping on the wrong pillow and the wrong side of the bed.

What dreams must I have forgotten by morning to have ended up on that pillow, on that side of the bed…with ash on my forehead.

Jesus Would Sing Like an Angel

something beautiful from Fleet Foxes:

"Crayon Angels" by Judee Sill




"Tiger Mountain Peasant Song"

In My Dreams I Am Everywhere. In Wakefulness I Am Absent.

The first thing I remember is the restaurant. It was my first day as a waitress. I kept repeating to myself, “Hi, I’m Rebecca. I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with an appetizer?” I should point out that I have never been a waitress and I hate saying my own name out loud. I always stumble over it. I kept repeating that bit in my head.

I was assigned the outdoor section of the restaurant. My parents had showed up, probably as curious spectators. I patted my dad on the back as I walked by their table. The outdoor dining area was all grassy, almost like it had been a soccer field at one point, surrounded by a steep, grassy hill on two sides. The hill was reminiscent of something you would spread your blanket on at an outdoor summer concert…

As I continued my walk along the grassy field, I abandoned my restaurant job and found myself amidst a crowd of people, possibly concert-goers. I was trying to walk up the hill by way of the earthen steps that had appeared out of nowhere, but a little girl got in front of me, blocking my progress. She had funny hair. The ends were a brassy red as was the very top of her head. But in between, the hair was silver. It looked like a bad dye job. She was having trouble climbing the steps, so I grabbed her hands and pulled her along. She kept her hands wrapped around each of my index fingers. She weighed considerably less than a cloud, and I lifted her into the air and set her down upon each new step.

Her grandmother was nearby. She looked like La Befana, hunched over, with a big, crooked nose and bulging, paranoid eyes. She was wearing a scarf on her head and kept reciting cities in the Balkan Peninsula. At least, that’s what I assumed because she mentioned Serbia a number of times. Conveniently, a map appeared at my feet with what looked like the corresponding area on it. I couldn’t understand the old woman’s language; it resembled Portuguese, though, with all its “sh’s”. As I continued to help the little girl up the steps, I made sure she paid attention to the map so she could keep up with her grandmother’s lecturing.

At the top of the stairs, we found ourselves in a hallway. It could have been any hallway anywhere, what with its cream-colored walls and nondescript doors leading off the main hall, but there was something ominous about it. The next thing I noticed was the presence of the little girl’s brothers and father. Except, maybe it wasn’t the little girl because she and her grandmother were nowhere to be found. I recognized the father. He works in the library where I do, in a different department. He wears those big plastic glasses my own father did in the ‘80s. He reminds me of someone my grandfather would have taught with.

But in my dream, he was younger, wearing fatigues and those same clunky glasses. He looks panicked, terrified really, a look you don’t see very often. Really, that look was haunting, alarming. Paranoid, frantic, like someone who knows he’s at the end.

The grandmother was there again. She was talking about revolutionaries, saying they were Bolsheviks. I have no idea, just some more talk of Serbia and Bolsheviks.

I touched the father’s elbow and fervently asked what was going on; where were they going? He wouldn’t tell me at first, but then he said they would probably go back to California…

That’s where I woke up. I could hear my roommate in the kitchen dumping pots of water into the coffee maker. I have no idea what she was doing. I looked at the time—3:05. Irritated, I again found myself wishing I could live alone. I finally fell back asleep and proceeded to dream of a Valentine’s Day banquet of tables laden with Oreos and sugar cookies iced with the Toyota logo…