In the Blur of Night
Harsher’s “Lost” a black dress with lace sleeves and a Lily Munster bat necklace.
Vandal Moon’s “The Bomb.” Peter Heppner’s “Vielleicht.” Goth clubs in which I’ve danced: The Lovecraft. The Castle. Wax. The Black Cat. Spellbound. His hands: on my hips. His hands’ roughness evident through the black dress’s thin fabric, our faces obliterated by laser strokes, fiber optics, smoke, our ears, our emotions octane with Ego Prisme’s “Once You Get There,” our bodies fading into reemerging from fading into one another like the meshed weaves of the spiderweb-patterned fishnets I wear. Fishnets he later smooths from my tanned, muscular calves as quietly as spilled black India ink seeps from an overturned jar, and I, lying on my back on the backseat of some unidentifiable car or the never-made bed in our simple bedroom, think how spilled ink never returns to its jar: paper towels, tissues, a frayed-edge rag sops the ink, absorbs it; the ink takes new forms in the fabric, develops a new existence within the paper, the rag, continues until Mr. Kitty’s “Hold Me Down” blares like a benediction recited as mourners exit a church and make their way graveside, where they stand: dressed in black suits, dresses, skirts and blouses, shoulder to shoulder, wiping their eyes with tissues, linens, smearing make up while others hold themselves together ignoring the paper towel, the tissues, in their coat pockets. Eventually, the paper towels, the tissues—thrown away. The frayed- edge rag—thrown away or washed. My fishnets—tossed onto the tan-carpeted floor or a cluttered dresser piled with war poetry collections, foreign erotica; flashlights; a single Swiss Army knife—drooping like an uncoiling black snake rolling from between two logs aching with wet, age, lichen long its seascape green.
The Birthday Massacre’s “Nothing and Nowhere”: the night’s final plea, leaking through a cell phone like night air with the open, screened window, and we curl beneath purple sheets, two commas forming an opening quotation mark to unwritten/unspoken dialogue, not relevant until morning when TWINS’ “Recoiled” plays as I rinse—hot water and peach-scented hand soap—the fishnets, notice a tear in the heel.
The scent of manufactured smoke, sweat, and a spilled Cabin Fever whirlpool in splashes down the staring unplugged drain.
Nicole Yurcaba is a Ukrainian-American poet and essayist. Her poems and essays have appeared in The Atlanta Review, The Lindenwood Review, Whiskey Island, Raven Chronicles, Appalachian Heritage, North of Oxford, and many other online and print journals. Nicole holds an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University.
Uncovered logs from the distant past and the future beyond.