Issue 5, April 2010
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Elana Bell
It never rains in LA.
Desert like a cotton-mouthed cowboy,
lawns greened by a developer’s will, palm trees
lean to kiss the pink concrete.
If you light a match to sagebrush,
the fire will spread a mile
in less time than it takes
an alcoholic to gulp a six pack.
I never met my Grandpa Harry.
A real charmer, he used to lock
himself in his room when company
came, drink until he slept.
§
The California whiptail lizard can survive
for up to nine months without
food or water. Lazes under bush
until a careless insect flashes by.
I saw one once, tongue stuck
to the black asphalt, absorbing
the runoff from our beer,
as we made love beside a garbage bin.
§
When I asked my Grandma which part
of marriage she liked best— Divorce
she spat. And the birth of your father.
My only reward for marrying that drunk.
The whiptail reproduces sans intercourse,
lays fertile eggs without the messy male,
resulting in a line of perfect female clones.
Even so, the whiptail likes to court:
one lizard playing female, one the male,
then they switch. I envy this
hermaphroditic ease, sometimes
attach a strap-on during sex.
§
I lied. I’ve never worn a dick.
But pushing pelvic mound
against my lover’s ass, I’ve wondered
What if, imagined his dark tunnel
open to receive my sex.
I also lied about LA.
It rained for sixteen days
this winter, flooded the canyons,
drowned the whiptails in their sleep.
I watched from behind my window
water crash against the glass, sheets
of lizards slipping down. They held
each other, tails entwined, knowing
it was time to die, lovers
as the sky burst: a thousand silvered
husks revealed, the color there
the only proof of love.
Elana Bell
It never rains in LA.
Desert like a cotton-mouthed cowboy,
lawns greened by a developer’s will, palm trees
lean to kiss the pink concrete.
If you light a match to sagebrush,
the fire will spread a mile
in less time than it takes
an alcoholic to gulp a six pack.
I never met my Grandpa Harry.
A real charmer, he used to lock
himself in his room when company
came, drink until he slept.
§
The California whiptail lizard can survive
for up to nine months without
food or water. Lazes under bush
until a careless insect flashes by.
I saw one once, tongue stuck
to the black asphalt, absorbing
the runoff from our beer,
as we made love beside a garbage bin.
§
When I asked my Grandma which part
of marriage she liked best— Divorce
she spat. And the birth of your father.
My only reward for marrying that drunk.
The whiptail reproduces sans intercourse,
lays fertile eggs without the messy male,
resulting in a line of perfect female clones.
Even so, the whiptail likes to court:
one lizard playing female, one the male,
then they switch. I envy this
hermaphroditic ease, sometimes
attach a strap-on during sex.
§
I lied. I’ve never worn a dick.
But pushing pelvic mound
against my lover’s ass, I’ve wondered
What if, imagined his dark tunnel
open to receive my sex.
I also lied about LA.
It rained for sixteen days
this winter, flooded the canyons,
drowned the whiptails in their sleep.
I watched from behind my window
water crash against the glass, sheets
of lizards slipping down. They held
each other, tails entwined, knowing
it was time to die, lovers
as the sky burst: a thousand silvered
husks revealed, the color there
the only proof of love.
Copyright © 2007-2009 Storyscape Journal ISSN 1941-3157