The Electric House of God
Location
The Electric House of God
1. Hard Enough
My mother discovered religion
In the hallway of a hospital.
It came to her in a crisp white suit
And introduced itself as
“Jeremy Coulter, but you can call me J.C.”
Religion had a smarmy grin
And clammy hands
And made grand statemants,
Promising forgiveness
And the love and protection of God.
Religion told my mother
How she could really help Alex.
“He only believes in you if you believe in Him,” religion said.
“Maybe all she needs is just a little prayer,
Maybe you haven’t been believing hard enough.”
2. Cocoon
The first butterfly
I ever drew on Alex
Was a mess.
I made it while she was sleeping,
Forming the chunky body and shaky wings
With too-hot hands clutched around a pilfered sharpie.
I almost stopped halfway through,
Suddenly feeling like a thief,
Like I was intruding on something
That I had no right to.
I kept going anyways,
And then sat by her side,
Staring at the half- smudged,
Shakily-drawn thing
I did my best to call beautiful.
I didn’t know if I really had the right
To draw that butterfly,
To blackmail her into living.
“If you hurt yourself,
You hurt this butterfly,
It’ll never get to live.
Don’t let that happen.”
Could I demand that of her?
I felt selfish and embarrassed,
Like I was threatening her
For the sake of my wellbeing,
So that I could have her in my life
For just a little longer.
After a while of sitting there,
Tracing my way along the layers of gauze
Bandaging her wrist,
With marker-stained fingers,
I decided that I didn’t care.
3. Saturday Morning Cartoons
I like waking up slowly.
I like just laying there for a while,
Between layers of cool sheets
And heavy blankets
And tangled limbs
And thinking.
Just thinking.
Taking stock,
Of my body,
Of myself,
Of my life,
Of what my day will be.
I like the way the sunlight
Just barely creeps its way
Beneath my curtains
And how silent the house is
When no one else is moving.
I like breathing.
I like that it’s a sign
That I’m still alive.
I like the way her breath
Whispers against the side of my face
And presses insistent kisses against
My ears and the cold ache of my cheeks.
I like knowing that she’s still there.
4. Bless
The light splashed against the side of the church,
Poured through the windows,
And flooded the streets.
There was a sea of umbrellas,
All spread wide open,
Dark and impersonal.
Their ridged, sloping backs
Fell up and down in rough, choppy waves.
He looked over to the girl next to him,
The way her knees were shoved
Up under her sharp chin
And the insistent way she picked
At the forming scab
On the inside of her elbow.
Her head rolled to rest against
The bars of the staircase railing
Next to her but she still didn’t look at him.
“You know,” she said,
“We only come to church because of me.”
He did know.
“My mom says that she prays for me,
Every day, and sometimes she ‘needs help’.”
She huffed and curled over herself a little more.
“Personally, I think that’s a load of shit, but…
Whatever. She just needs an excuse.”
She looked at him, finally,
Eyes sharp, demanding agreement.
“It’s stupid right?
She’s stupid.
Your mom too,
I mean, no offense, but,
Really, who are they kidding?
God?”
He looked at the faded butterfly
He’d drawn on the inside of her right wrist
And the thick scab now cleanly bisecting it.
He had nothing to say to her.
5. Abstraction
“She’s gone already,” he thinks.
She’s spinning in dizzy circles,
Grabbing at the people around her,
Promising anyone who will come closer,
“I love you, I really, really love you.”
He slips his hands into his pockets,
Forces his arms straight
And his shoulders back,
Brings his head down
So that his chin nearly meets his chest
And arranges his face into a scowl,
His eyebrows lowering
And his lip jutting out
Into a mulish frown.
He watches the people around her carefully.
They look intimidated.
He wonders if the would be nearly so wary
If they knew that he was rolling
The lint gathered at the corners
Of his pants pockets
Into little balls to comfort himself.
She turns to him, finally.
“Don’t be so grumpy Eric, here,
You look like a troll.”
Her laughter is high and shrill,
She pulls him in until they’re pressed tight together
And tangles her arms around him.
“I love you, I promise,” she whispers,
“I really love you, just you, only you.”
She keeps going, but he’s not quite listening anymore.
There’s a haze of lights and muted colors,
Each one stretching out
Into a nauseating iridescent smear
When he swings his head around.
He’s punch drunk,
Strung out on the opium of their love.
6. Audible Graffiti
He can’t really understand
What she’s saying,
Though he pretends he does.
It doesn’t matter anyways,
She’s not really awake,
And the things she says
In these moments of vulnerability
Are things that he thinks
He really doesn’t deserve to hear.
Her voice is static in his ears,
And his eyes drift from her
Even as she clutches closer to him,
Tugging a limp arm around herself
And shoving her cold face into his side.
He can feel the chill of her red nose
Through his thin t-shirt,
And he shakes his arm a little,
Jostles her so that her grasp slips
Just a little looser.
Still, he doesn’t look away
From the neon lights
He glares at through the haze
Of the smoke slipping from between his lips.
He opens his mouth wide,
Like he’s trying to swallow the whole world,
Then bites down,
Chomping through the cloud
Of tobacco, nicotine, and pesticides.
His teeth click back together
And he finds himself
Feeling immensely unsatisfied.
She’s all chapped lips
And bruised eyes
And smeared eyeliner.
Her dark hair trickles down
Over the shell of her ears
And brushes against the inside of his arm.
The feeling of her hair,
The itch of it against his bare skin
And the scent that hangs around her-
The heavy weight of vanilla,
The acrid smoke of coffee,
And the clove in the cigarettes
That she smokes near-worshipfully-
Makes him feel
Like he’s stumbled into something intimate.
“She’s young,”
He thinks, followed by,
“I’m young too.”
Her hair is curling around her ears,
Tight knots that drip down
Over her pale forehead
And wisp outwards to form
A black halo around her head.
He thinks of his favorite picture
Of her as a kid,
The big, bright smile,
The clear gaze,
The way her head arched backward
And her arms had been locked straight,
Bare, tanned,
And held in front of her
With a lack of hesitation
He wished he could have seen
At least one more time.
She’s knocked out,
Unlikely to wake up
For a couple hours at least,
And he takes the chance
To draw butterflies all up her arms,
Careful sweeps of curving wings
That he scrapes into her skin
With the pen he found lying
In the bottom of her bag.
7. Church Going
In the morning when he wakes up,
He doesn’t move.
He lies beside her,
Lets her breath rush against his face,
And traces the thin lines of the fragile wings
Flitting against her pale skin.
Sunday mornings are easy,
Church is a habit now long-practiced,
And prayers come easy to him
When he’s too selfish to ask for the world.
All he really wants is Alex
And the butterflies on her arms
To stay where they are.
With him.