Current
Issue
Volume 12.2
Catherine Broadwall
—
Aubade with Eyelash Glue
In one of the windows of the little doom machine,
I follow posts by artists who tell me the world is good.
The same world that gluts itself on what is terrible
for it, like my grandfather stirring butter into his coffee
while cackling, giving us a scare. The same world that
gave me my father will someday take my father from me.
Now tell me how you expect me to love a fickle friend
like that. I twang the string of the paper cup phone
connecting me to it. I want to, as the kids say, ghost it
now and then. Set down my half of the conversation
and sulk off, wearing enormous headphones,
disappointment thick as a sweater. The same world that
gave me my mother will someday take my mother from me.
The losses I have yet to feel fan out like face-down cards.
I just need a minute to compose a quick response. I didn’t
put up an autoreply, and I don’t want the world thinking
me an ungracious guest. I know this is where I’m supposed to
find consolation in a bird or flower. I know this is not
the place to mention the eyelash glue on the bus. But there
it is, the thing that actually piqued some bright affection:
a whole fake eyelash glued to the handrail, making the bus
feel glam. Vertical handrail, silver cyclops gazing back
at me. There is little I can do about the fading ephemera,
the cackling of butter in coffee. But the eyelash twangs
the paper cup string phone. I pick up. I answer, Hello.
Bio Copy here
