From Our Spring 2007 Classes
JT Stewart wrote “One of These Days” as the result of having taken two speculative fiction workshops, one taught by Connie Willis and one by Peter Beagle. Their sessions conjured up working story ideas—“still baking/rising in the oven,” as JT says—while the concepts from the in-class sessions triggered this poem. She plans to include this poem in a collection she's working on, Love on the Rocks, Yet Again.
One of These Days
By JT Stewart
Wash his shorts
clip his toenails
fumigate his socks
throw out his beer bottles
lie about your black eye
thank him for the flowers
remind him to shave
get him a new elegant watch
tell him you still love him
lie about your swollen face
thank him for the flowers
wait on him in coffee shops
learn to watch bowl games on HDTV
iron his shorts and his T-shirts
threaten to move out
lie to your few remaining friends
break all the good dishes
hide most of his credit cards
look for something to burn
lie to your therapist
find a new cosmetic surgeon
buy more candles and incense
lie about your broken thumb
thank him for the flowers
take gourmet cooking classes
memorize exotic wine lists
find new homes for your cats
thank him for the flowers
buy a discreet handgun
lie to your therapist
sleep with your gun under your pillow
dream of your next confrontation
pull out your gun
stand with your back to the wall
hesitate
aim for his head
hesitate
aim for his heart
hesitate
ask him once more
to explain himself
hear him say
You know I don't mean it
you know I love you
tell him next time you'll shoot
I will shoot you next time
lower the gun
wait for him to smile
put the gun away
wait for his flowers
lie to your therapist
Sean O'Connor has been writing humorous essays for magazine and radio and presenting his work on stage since 2004. This story was written during the workshop “Vocalize,” taught by Katinka Kraft. It will be incorporated into a solo performance titled “I'll Give You Something to Cry About—a Comedy.”
"John in the Box"
By Sean O'Connor
My three sisters picked up our father in upstate New York and were on the five-hour road trip that would take them back to New Hampshire. During one of their check-in calls to me I wondered: If only two of them had made the trip instead of three, could our father, whose cremated remains were in a box in the trunk of the car, be counted as a passenger so they could use the HOV lane? Kind of the existential polar opposite of another line of thinking I've pursued: If I'm driving on the highway with my pregnant wife, can we count our unborn child in our three-passenger quota? It's possible that the question of where life begins and where it ends could be decided in traffic court.
Philosophy aside, cremation held a number of practical advantages for us, not the least of which was financial—it's way cheaper to move a box of ashes across state lines than it is an actual dead body. In reality, dad was more cargo than passenger—or, as my sister so eloquently put it: the original dick in a box.
Our plan was for a simple memorial service in our hometown church, even though it had been 25 Christmases since any of us had been there. On the night before the service we went to meet the priest in the church rectory to go over the plans. Of the five of us in the room, he was the youngest and most ill at ease. Turns out he was a twin and his brother was a priest, too. Without missing a beat my sister Kelli said, “Your mother must be very proud.” The four of us burst out laughing because it was such a cliché—and not a sister cliché, but more like a great aunt or grandmother cliché.
What's a priest supposed to say about a man he never met; a man whose ashes were at this very moment in the trunk of a Ford Taurus parked just outside his front door; a man who died alone, estranged from his family; a family who, sitting before him, didn't have much in the way of happy memories or family anecdotes to share? Whatever he chose to say, we hoped he would make his mother proud.
For the memorial service, a tall, narrow antique table with an inlaid leather top had been positioned at the foot of the altar to display the box containing our father's cremated remains. The box, a cigar humidor actually, with burled wood veneer stained a deep blue, had been given to my sister by her boss the day before—a slightly awkward gift, considering that the eve of a funeral isn't a traditional gift-giving occasion. But it was perfect really, a mini-coffin, and the freezer-size Ziploc bag full of ashes nestled perfectly inside its fragrant cedar liner.
The service was dignified and the young priest eloquent. As he spoke, the slow delivery and upward tilt of his head gave me a sense that he was searching for the right words, and those words, if they existed, might be floating high up near the peaked ceiling of the sanctuary. He paced in circles around the humidor, gesturing with his hands; he ceremoniously anointed the humidor with a generous spritz of holy water while making the sign of the cross. He spoke directly to the humidor and the dead man sealed inside.
Finally, the young priest said, “The mass is ended, you may go in peace.”
And so we did.
Kitty Jospé's poem, “Directions for a Duct Tape Rose,” plays with juxtaposing directions for making a duct tape rose (found in the living section of the local paper), with a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Kitty says that her “mock sonnet” does not pretend to match the wit of the poets she studied in Steve Arnston's Hugo House class, but it does provide a new look at “hearts.” As to her dedication, to “Elizabeth B.,” she leaves it up to the reader to decide between Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Elizabeth Bishop and Elizabeth Bennet.
Directions for a Duct Tape Rose : Dedicated to Elizabeth B.
By Kitty Jospé
How do I love thee? let me fold in the ways,
13 strips of red duct tape, 2.5 inches in height
where the sticky sides are up, triangle in sight
—you, me and a duct tape rose
petal by petal, blossoming a day to days
randomly rolling petals,
freely,
with passion
creating for you
to wear on fashionable sleeves
—a duct tape rose with two green leaves
where love is put to use, its praise lashed on.
One leaf for the old love, and one for the new
that prods me to make, in seven easy steps,
a rose cleft from my heart saying
for you love,
for you.
