This I Don’t Believe (is Really Happening)
for Aaron Hoover
Glenn Beck implores the FOX Nation to believe
in something, even if it’s wrong. I believe wrongly
that lifequakes are healthy. I believe wrongly that
my busted heart will heal if marinated in alcohol.
I believe wrongly that I can write myself out
of bed when nothing else works. This I Believe?
More like This I Used To Believe When I Was Younger
and Easily Influenced. Each Tuesday without fail
I call you, as two Virginias work pastoral magic
on two transplanted Hoosiers. As each week passes,
as the voicemail picks up, I wonder why I ever moved
from the sidewalk under my old bedroom window.
I jam as many words into your voicemail as I dare
in five minutes. We can’t ride the cell towers
to our Indiana homes, but I’ll be damned if I let
this connection drop now. Where does this rabbit
hole lead us? Will I still be holding your hand
when the water turns to air and we fall through
two more years like sycamore leaves?
for Aaron Hoover
Glenn Beck implores the FOX Nation to believe
in something, even if it’s wrong. I believe wrongly
that lifequakes are healthy. I believe wrongly that
my busted heart will heal if marinated in alcohol.
I believe wrongly that I can write myself out
of bed when nothing else works. This I Believe?
More like This I Used To Believe When I Was Younger
and Easily Influenced. Each Tuesday without fail
I call you, as two Virginias work pastoral magic
on two transplanted Hoosiers. As each week passes,
as the voicemail picks up, I wonder why I ever moved
from the sidewalk under my old bedroom window.
I jam as many words into your voicemail as I dare
in five minutes. We can’t ride the cell towers
to our Indiana homes, but I’ll be damned if I let
this connection drop now. Where does this rabbit
hole lead us? Will I still be holding your hand
when the water turns to air and we fall through
two more years like sycamore leaves?
Why a Traditional Fallen Woman Narrative—Misplaced, Then Remembered—Got Me Out of Bed Before Sunrise
[Stark forgetfulness shakes me
awake in the first snow’s light.]
In the cavern of a waiting room,
timelines of daily commuters
buffer my adventure to the big city.
I sit on a bench, flipping through
a magazine, passing this article
and that photo spread between
bored fingers [I need the article,
I need it in my hands. I run
white streets, melt in library
fluorescent lights. My feet know
exactly where to go.] until I find it--
boy meets girl, one magic summer,
it all ends in tears--[I slip the rubber
band from the microfilm around
my wrist as a reminder.] and I think
That’s almost me, maybe it could
be me, thank God it’s not [But now
it is. How could I have forgotten this
for so long?] then a voice announces
my train is boarding and I stand up,
leave that story behind in the rush.
[I sit on a bench sorting photocopies
while the heavens blanket my discovery.
No need to imagine. That’s me.]
[Stark forgetfulness shakes me
awake in the first snow’s light.]
In the cavern of a waiting room,
timelines of daily commuters
buffer my adventure to the big city.
I sit on a bench, flipping through
a magazine, passing this article
and that photo spread between
bored fingers [I need the article,
I need it in my hands. I run
white streets, melt in library
fluorescent lights. My feet know
exactly where to go.] until I find it--
boy meets girl, one magic summer,
it all ends in tears--[I slip the rubber
band from the microfilm around
my wrist as a reminder.] and I think
That’s almost me, maybe it could
be me, thank God it’s not [But now
it is. How could I have forgotten this
for so long?] then a voice announces
my train is boarding and I stand up,
leave that story behind in the rush.
[I sit on a bench sorting photocopies
while the heavens blanket my discovery.
No need to imagine. That’s me.]
Sex. Technology. Adultery.
Depression. Literacy.
Sarcasm. Isolation.
Personal issues.
Love. Rejection.
The media. Weather.
Longing. Hatred.
Silliness. A sense of place.
Affection misplaced.
His weakness for blondes.
Her divisiveness. Green
grass. Black clothing.
The silence between
bodies. The words
I’m not speaking.
A brief bio:
Josette Torres received her MFA in
Creative Writing from Virginia Tech in 2010. She also holds a BA in
English and Creative Writing from Purdue University. Her work has been
published in The New Verse News, Down in the Dirt, and Emerge Literary Journal and is forthcoming in Ayris. She is the Writer in Residence at the Lyric Theatre in Blacksburg, Virginia.
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