Fourgone Wanting it don’t make it real. The story endings stay the same though you construct all manner of misdirection. You say this, standing on your near rotten porch in your Y fronts, and dingy wife beater. A caricature of a B rate husband. Living in a single wide, just shy of the tracks with hanging baskets of geraniums way to close to your head. You bought them for Alice. Like you do every Sunday in May. Muttering, ‘ain’t no use putting ‘em on a stone slab, ya can’t hang shit in a graveyard.’ By your side is an old bitch yellowed and white, leaning hard against your leg. When you reach down and stroke those old ears, I forgive you everything. Even the stories you never told. Even the stories you did. Even me.
Old Wives’ Tale At first everyday then every week, every month now, only national holidays. How is that again? It doesn’t matter. I would give you my fresh cut grey hair- gift it to you in the soft folds of my drooping skin. We could fly away on the wings under my arms. Flesh that use to be as tight as a maiden. Now south is my enemy. Everything seems to fall down to my toes. I ache for you and youth the days when we lay together, no matter the place, a camp cot, a sofa, a scratchy horse blanket thrown across the moss of the bog. Now the queen bed is too small for my hot flashes and your insomnia. We lay together like chaste rubber dolls, Barbies with no genitals. Gone to menopause hell, sweaty and tired. Open the window - let the air in bring yourself back to me, Fire up those hormones. Not for two hours, or all night like the old days. Once will do, we have only this moment left. Run your hand down my side, match your winkles to mine, pat the pockets of old age chub. We have lived and love in changed bodies- losing height, broadening out. Let our love spread like a Virginia creeper leave - the shrinking to violets. At three A.M. when us old ones wake up look me in the eye, say ‘I do.’ And mean it. I’ll pass you the Geritol and lube. Let’s begin something that will never end. Old love, like gnarled perennials, more root than flower. Grounded together. Loving into old.
Jody padumachitta Goch is a Canadian living in the German Black Forest. They write poetry and short fiction, chop wood, and train horses. Jody’s jeans and shirt pockets are full of words. It’s hell on the wash machine. They enjoy lighting her wood stove and rescuing words from the lint catcher.
Guest Editor José Faus is a founder of the Latino Writers Collective. His writing appears in numerous anthologies. His chapbook This Town Like That was released by Spartan Press. His second book of poetry The Life and Times of Jose Calderon was published by West 39 Press.