a collection of convos & conversations :: of (bodily) loss, light, & life

by Jen Schneider


     1.  lights out

back in the day, i’d paint lips of moisturizing cream & berries then lie, face up / backside down. lodged in soft grass, beatles streaming, also crawling & trace belts in & of star-lit skies. orion would call & i’d answer. his voice clear, no matter the weather. now, night wages war & i fight dawn with masks of multiple cotton & faux satin layers. restoration chronicled by black out shades & sleep-inducing foam. memory made. ears plugged.

     2.  ear worms & static

i don’t know when the nightly ritual turned to an extended metaphor, but the sounds have gone with the lights. what’s that. louder. again. cycled & recycled. as the dryer turns. vents gather layers of dust. until the repetitive phrasing becomes simply repetitive & i tune out. i’d move closer but distancing is in vogue & i prefer to be trendy. bodies of limb & layers go limp. they’re relieved. it’s easier to pretend it’s not thundering. easier to count silently & watch/wait/wonder as lips settle. only nothing’s easy & pretending is often just as exhausting as not. dusk comes early. & earlier.

     3.  repetition hurts

muscle memory beats as melodies morph. b chords meet belts. chords of g taunt times of glee. high & low tides pulse. tempos & tempers persist. pallets perform parades of nighttime happenings. limbs twist. legs tangle. music turns dark. silver bands on fumbling fingers linger.

     4.  batter up

batter of butter, egg, & almond flour would sizzle then solidify as the trio touched the sizzling griddle. oil & water may not mix, but butter & eggs sure do. there’s two sides to every pancake, she’d muse as the spatula clinked against the lime green bowl. which side is better, i’d ask as she would flip the cake & tell me they’re also known as flapjacks. one day, the flip fell flat & the jack hit the floor. the dog, its nose always to the floor, ran away with the goods & some runaway batter hit my nose. my nose sizzled, then turned red. she tapped my shoulder, wiped the stray batter, then asked me why i blush.

     5.  on daily news & clippings of curious characteristics

i’d scour soil for lady bugs as phases of the moon morphed. cut coupons & clip fabric on laundry lines at lunchtime. collect aphids on discarded fabric after dinner.

     6.  on & of shared letters

all words contain at least one vowel.
adopt & adapt share all but one letter.
a, e, i, o, u.
swap a & o
exchange u & i
I.O.U.

     7.  of missteps & mistaken oops

i guess i should have cleaned the mess the night he made it, but it was dark & the mess small. everything’s more visible at dawn. i thought. sure i’d be able to retrace all steps & collect what he left behind. turns out that dawn is as relative as dusk & by the time i returned to the field i had both distanced myself from his doings & managed to birth bigger messes. new tracks traced loops around the small pile. they look like cashews, i once said. easy to identify, another added. we’ll catch ‘em, a third agreed. i wish i had the courage to confess & clarify. instead, i cussed & claimed i forgot my phone. carry on, i called. then whispered. everyone poops.

     8.  game night.

Chutes and Ladders was a Friday night favorite. A game of cat and mouse. Up ladders. Down slides. Domination fleeting and game play nothing more than a matter of perspective. Fingers click plastic spinners. Bodies of manmade material march. Time turns. And then the dog eats the small red plastic marker and time stands still. No one able to move. Everyone perched then frozen at the intersection of competitive game play & congested airways.

     9.  of eyes :: to be (un)seen

oscar meyer                                                                sweetly soiled, slightly salted
bologna on wonder                                                     bologna on wonder           
wrapped in clear cellophane                                       wrapped in slick conversation

twenty-twenty                                                             obstructed vision
vision, when i crave                                                    of near & far proportions
not to be seen                                                              when I crave sight (& light)

     10.  gas lights

the gas light burned most mornings. hard boiled eggs. pots of strong coffee. most evenings too. sirloins cooked over high heat. “she’s gas lighting you,” the voice on the other end of the tightly coiled rope, the one twisted tightly around your pinky finger, warned. “no, i don’t believe so. not yet. not really. no matter.” the gas light burned most mornings. most evenings, too.


* * * * *

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Recent works include A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Habits & Habitats, and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.