By Gretchen Gales
-after Ray Gonzalez
I taste waves against the boat my great-
Grandparents left Austria-Hungary in,
My blood calling me to rule the Empire.
I taste my grandmother slamming the door,
Opening the window only
When my grandfather agreed to her demands.
I taste the scratch of pencils
Against blueprints,
1992 when my childhood home was born.
I taste the low rumble
Of Daddy’s aging red tractor, terror
As I grip the wheel, sitting in his lap, age four.
I taste the crunching of airline peanuts 1999,
and silence
deafening, 2001.
I taste my name called
For third, a year later first,
The enslavement
Of my heart in George Strait’s
“I Cross My Heart” its liberation
In Gaga’s “Gypsy.”
I taste the sound of chocolate fondue
Smacking against my teeth,
A quality photo at Senior Prom.
I taste my Uncle Fred’s forgotten pills
Shuffling in his plaid, flannel button-up pocket,
The whack of his face hitting the table.
I can still taste the gurgling
Into my ears during baptism,
The uneasy murmurs of our freshman selves.
I taste 8 a.m. roosters at 6:00.
I taste hissing, the slash of his tires,
my keys carving a custom message on the front of the hood.
Rage echoing in my house, abandoned.
-after Ray Gonzalez
I taste waves against the boat my great-
Grandparents left Austria-Hungary in,
My blood calling me to rule the Empire.
I taste my grandmother slamming the door,
Opening the window only
When my grandfather agreed to her demands.
I taste the scratch of pencils
Against blueprints,
1992 when my childhood home was born.
I taste the low rumble
Of Daddy’s aging red tractor, terror
As I grip the wheel, sitting in his lap, age four.
I taste the crunching of airline peanuts 1999,
and silence
deafening, 2001.
I taste my name called
For third, a year later first,
The enslavement
Of my heart in George Strait’s
“I Cross My Heart” its liberation
In Gaga’s “Gypsy.”
I taste the sound of chocolate fondue
Smacking against my teeth,
A quality photo at Senior Prom.
I taste my Uncle Fred’s forgotten pills
Shuffling in his plaid, flannel button-up pocket,
The whack of his face hitting the table.
I can still taste the gurgling
Into my ears during baptism,
The uneasy murmurs of our freshman selves.
I taste 8 a.m. roosters at 6:00.
I taste hissing, the slash of his tires,
my keys carving a custom message on the front of the hood.
Rage echoing in my house, abandoned.
Gretchen Gales is managing editor and a staff writer for Quail Bell Magazine. Her work has also appeared in Yellow Chair Review, Afflatus Issue One, Pencil Marks, Typewrite, Lipstick Party Mag, and Amendment Literary and Art Magazine. See more of her work at www.writinggales.wordpress.com. |