Living Under Glass – Part I
Sep 30th, 2009 | By Julie M Tate | Category: My Brother Billy, Series | 734 views“Happy birthday beautiful.” His voice is a light, welcome jangling of syllables and slightly effeminate influxes. My fingers come alive from their black nest of blankets, and seek like rattlesnakes to heat; my jaded eyes flush to his piercing blue response above me. I used to snap awake when he left the bed.
“Thanks Billy.” My mouth has little room to move. He’s only in town for a week, just seven small revolutions before he melts away from me, becoming the cigarette air of Milan, the burnt cuisine of Paris, the spice and splendor of Tokyo, the rape and honey thickness of L.A.
“Come downstairs. I have something for you.” An old t-shirt hangs from my gangly bones, hair an orgy of product and perfume. I sit on his knee. His eyes burn a trail across my thighs, while I open the small, silver box on the kitchen table. “I bought this in Zimbabwe.” There’s a small bottle attached to a piece of blue string. He tells me it holds flecks of dried lioness heart soaked in holy oil. “Never take it off and never forget.” I wrap it twice around my neck, this noose he’s given me. “Your heart is not kept under glass.” He taps the vial with a provocatively long finger.
“But isn’t that where you keep special things?”
“It’s where you keep dead things.”
I kiss his knuckles, little hills of experience and hard work. I nod and begin the breakfast ritual, a concert of pots and pans, banging them around for a moment, while watching him watch me. He isn’t wearing anything under that ancient nightgown, except miles of limbs and pale skin. I inherited mine from him.
I take three brown eggs from the refrigerator, which makes no sound, when he yanks me backward, spinning me around like I was in 2nd grade again. I’m a whirl of smiling girl and memories, until he stops me. “Where am I?” He demands. “Where am I?” Spider fingers bite my arms, disappear and return elsewhere. I’m poisoned, slow and confused. “Where am I? Where am I?” I’m caught in his white-shelled web, jerking to and fro; each time I orient, he turns me upside down. When the world stops, he’s standing slightly to my left, arms crossed.
“This is love.” The nausea subsides, and again I retrieve three brown eggs. I bang more pots and pans. I ask him over easy or sunny side up.
To read Part II, see Billy – Part II
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About Julie M Tate: Julie M. Tate has appeared in literary journals such as Papyrus, anthologies such as The Great American Poetry Show and her first chapbook, The Rough Chronicles of Bipolar Romance, was published this year. She is the owner, author and editor of Gossip and the Devil (www.devilgossip.com), a creative/lifestyle blog providing interviews with independent artists in a variety of mediums and commentary on culture, music and travel. She is also the owner and sole designer for Modern Orphan Designs (www.modernorphandesigns.com). She currently resides in Tulsa, OK though she considers Chicago, IL home. She is a modern orphan. |
©2009 Julie M Tate All Rights Reserved
I absolutely love this. Great use of metaphor and imagery.
“Your heart is not kept under glass.” – “But isn’t that where you keep special things?” – “It’s where you keep dead things.”
That is a special bit of dialogue, and it will stick with me for a long time. You have such a wonderful way with words.
[...] “Living Under Glass” on Troubadour21 [...]
very nicely done. for some reason the three brown eggs portion is one of my favorites. next to the whole heart under glass part, but someone already pointed that one out.
Love it Julie, send us more!!!
[...] the streets that should be easy. You’ve already gotten me into readers choice with “Living Under Glass” and featuring my first published photograph, “Lord Henry Hits Rock Bottom,” so, [...]
[...] Part I :: Living Under Glass Part II :: The Inquisition Part III :: The Invention of Hopeless Beach [...]