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Horse Tree
Enmeshed in equine activities of every sort: breeding,
whipping, whispering,
lunging, jumping, rearing.
Etcetera.
Up the scratchy skyscraper trunk
beneath his hooves
she goes, pulls herself toward the plaid paradox
of her pants
in the saddle,
their wispy silk
brushes her skin of sky.
Then riding English
and holding hell's handbag she
somersaults down a flank
to land crooked but comfortable
in a place
where all the streets are second-hand.
It's all dolls and playhouses retro-fitted with feelings sometimes.
Sometimes
she feels her way back to him
and sometimes
she doesn't.
The blossoms shivered and depleted themselves.
But they grew back,
lush by the time she
again reached that throbbing saddle horn.
That was the first good fall.
And she was proud of her bruises and broken thoughts,
the scraped knees of her tree-climbing soul,
even though way back before Velcro was invented
the horse tree had recommended
soft landings.
Embroidering a smile onto a smiley face
on one of those fashionable hellish handbags
one horse-faced critic at branch's edge told them both
to behave
So they did, but first they pried open her mouth
and looked in
hoping hard
really hard
that she had the exact same sort of mouth they did.
Where Are We Going?
She would have been the best truck stop waitress
that truck stop ever had
if she hadn't quit after the first night,
and she wouldn't have quit after the first night
if she hadn't gone out to that trucker's truck
with him after her shift. What better job
was there at that time for someone
of her age and education level?
Anybody can be a waitress.
And if you're friendly and like people,
and care that they are made happy
and enjoy their time in your greasy spoon,
then it's perfect for you. Better yet,
if you enjoy counting out lots of small change
at the end of the night, like a little elf or gnome
hoarding treasure, then you will be content, you'll have found
your place. But she went out with him and sat in the cab
and heard his sad story about how his wife had betrayed him
and given him no choice other than to divorce her
and leave her and the kids. He started getting really
upset, and talking about God, God, God while this red light
on the dashboard made him look a little devilish.
Then another trucker on the CB radio made a general inquiry
as to whether there was any "commercial beaver"
out there or not. She was just a friendly waitress. She
was not commercial beaver. And her new friend was very distraught.
He missed his wife so badly and wanted
this waitress to kiss him and make him feel better.
But she was not that friendly. Her heart was beating way too fast.
She was scared. She scrambled out of his cab with his hands trailing after her.
She quit her job. She bought another newspaper.
She looked for another job all over again.
All the employers wanted people with experience.
She had no experience in anything.
Except for having been a truck stop waitress
for eight hours once.
Phoebe Wilcox lives in eastern Pennsylvania. Some of her favorite things are John Banville novels,
sushi, salamanders (they have cute hands) and picking blueberries. Her novel, Angels Carry the Sun is pending publication
with Lilly Press, and an excerpt from a second novel-in-progress has been published in Wild Violet. Recent and
forthcoming experiments may be found in The Chaffey Review, The Big Table, Shoots and Vines,
The Battered Suitcase, The Linnet's Wings,Calliope Nerve,Bartleby-Snopes,The Black Boot
and others. Her story, "Carp with Water in Their Ears," published in River Poets Journal was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Web Site
Email: Phoebe Wilcox
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