Ceasefire We
never escape the war with
the things we think we own. As
soon as you make peace with
the temperamental engine, you
will no doubt discover sabotage
stirring fresh in
a tiny plastic button you
once considered innocent. The
sole red sock lying
lonely in the dryer will
forever mock your awe as
his brother tumbles down some
underground railroad nobody
will ever discover. The
crooked hanging frames will
shake with silent laughter as
the pearl-white carpet catches a
fallen plate of spaghetti and
another helpless sigh. Every
day a brand new battle: stubborn
screws and tangled cords, loose
knobs and shrunken shirts, the
corner that nicks your shin, and
the couch that steals your keys. But
once in a while, a ceasefire settles, a
brass lamp’s light falls tender and
a pillow holds your neck as
you settle into the evening with
a old, familiar book that
falls open right to your page.
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Deaf The
song of sirens wakes you from
a hung-low hammock nap. The
trees are dripping with sunlight, your
lips still taste of lemonade, and
the breezeless air hangs heavy with
the buzz of honey-bees, much
as it did when you nodded off. Even
the gold-flecked leaf that
floated down onto your stomach hasn’t
budged in hours. The
sirens sing a louder song as
your groggy fingers grope in
search of a protagonist that
you left stranded on
the dog-eared page of
a just-dropped book. You
snatch the volume up and
stretch out like a tabby before
settling your sleepy eyes once
more on sun-lit scribbles. The
sirens sing outside your house and
only now do you wonder towards
what tragedy they race. Only
now does it occur to you that
somebody’s Saturday is broken. Fire-truck?
Or ambulance? You
attempt an interpretation, but
an untouched string of Saturdays has
rendered you nearly deaf to
the varied keys of suffering. The
sirens sing a fading tune. Still,
you decide to fashion a prayer, to
mumble some thoughtful words for
an unseen burning home or
a man you’ll never meet dying
in the back of an ambulance. So
you shut your eyes and
wait for something real, but
you quickly fall asleep as
the sound of sirens dies. When
you wake, the
world is as you left it and
you will no doubt smile to
find the sun still shining and
the protagonist still waiting. That
you have slept through the suffering of
a neighbor is forgivable. After
all, a man can’t unravel every
time some stranger dies. The
world’s too wrecked for that. Just
know this: There
will come a day when
the sirens sing for you. And
somewhere across town someone
whom you adore will
stir from an afternoon nap just
long enough to yawn and
utter some half-hearted prayer for
a nameless, faceless stranger whose
suffering is soon forgotten.
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