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.

 

 

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