From Blood a Cold Blue
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Dew on the Stalk
Never saw it coming, the peregrine out of the deep blue sky, outstretched legs, talons a-glint, the young snakes oblivious. This is the order of things, how the pyramid works, the chain of command, a glass ceiling of Linnaean exactitude. Look back, through the door with the chipped paint and the broken lock.
Once, it opened onto an ordered field, an orchard, rows of apple trees, cookers, granny smiths, beauty of baths, day-old snail silver tracked here and there. Under pressure, the bank tightened its grip, the trees wildened, tall grass sprang up where before order ruled. In the Carmelite convent the nuns sang Terce and the bishop let out his belt a notch, the dried egg yolk yellowed in his whiskers.
In the field, unseen by most, the stoat licked first the left, then the right paw, fastidious, aware of every small movement. Soft underbelly, the hairs stiffened by its saliva, both eyes black beads, the writhing snake caused the stoat no sense of loss, or dismay. Instead, ablutions over, it turned around and chose a path through long grass to where an earthen burrow opened in the shade of a wall. Gone, not forgotten, much in the manner of a late-morning dream, one of those that remains in the memory for fleet moments, before the mind awakens fully and the dream recedes like dew on the stalk.
Over the tabernacle, the masochism of perpetual motion, fingers to forehead, to breastbone, to heart, to ribcage, all the missing children running around playing hide-and-go-seek in the church grounds. Plainsong, the apple of a mother’s eye, straining to count to thirty. Possible that the house next-door is full of ghosts, handwringing, whispering, colluding specters of motes, transmigrating from rotting flesh to fleeting view in a window. The finial should have told the story, but the ivy grew around it and spoiled the clue. Tallow lamps lit the rooms at night, the shiver of curtain, the flicker of white, empty steps on broken boards.
Arabesques turned in air, midnight show-time, no attendees, save the broken chairs, the dusty tables, a lone rat hugging the wainscoting, the dancers unwatched, uncared for. If the peregrine flew at night between the apple trees, wing-whispers and trained eyes, no creature would avoid the scrutiny of the sleepless hawk. Percussive angels, feasting on moted souls pass one another by and nod politely, the hidden meaning clear to all but the soulless. And in a corner, an abandoned violin slumps against the wall, its strings frayed and unfingered.
Crumbs of Darkness
In the space beneath the stairs where the nanny devours her children, the crumbs of crushed femurs and clavicles litter the floor. She is alien, she is a thousand years old, she speaks with a Flemish accent, and her skin is aquamarine. It is when we sleep in the afternoon that the trouble brews. The dream causes me to thrash about in the cot, arms waving, beads of sweat on my brow, eyes gummed shut. When she reaches in and attempts to restrain me, I am startled by the icepick fingers that wrap about my thin bones. She hums a tune, a merry wedding tune, as she shoves me into the pantry beneath the carpeted stairs. I want my mommy and daddy, not this child-eater. They are not here, not since the clinical trials began. She told me their number had been called, and I cried for the longest time. Now, the darkness and the crumbs and the small, polished teeth tickle my skin, and the last strains of the wedding song fade into the world.
The Tearing of Skin
On a spar of telephone pole. A mouse in its paws. Is it playing, or is it survival? A cascade of feathers, buff, red, white, the tearing of skin. This was not something I witnessed in Ireland. Terra-cotta earth, the white cross, walk the way of the penitents. A white band, yellow backswept, the snow riddles the cracks of the far-off Sangre de Cristo, and frosted windows fade to nowhere.
That was then, this is now: a carpet of muted color, the spread pages of an old notebook, ideas, schematics. An evening sun breaks its brittle rays on the gable-end of the house and a russet coyote pads past my window, bound for the chicken coop. Most days I don’t have the energy to spin fabulist passages of an Irish childhood.
Once upon a time the man traveled from town to town, seeking a welcoming hearth, a stool to sit upon, and a bowl of steaming food, before telling his stories. There’s perfection in the arched sunflower as it bends its head earthward, flowers dead, the seeds ready to spread across the earth. My hand stayed by a single thought.
James Claffey hails from County Westmeath, Ireland, and lives on an avocado ranch in Carpinteria, CA, with his wife, the writer and artist, Maureen Foley, their daughter, Maisie, and Australian cattle-dog, Rua.
Blood a Cold Blue (Press 53, 2013) is available now.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
