To the Lady Who Gave Out Pencils on Halloween
I would like to say thank you,
because I don't think I said thank you
once in all those years
that I climbed your steep front steps
in my mask or sheet or wig or witch's hat
and held up my opened pillow case
among the other opened pillow cases
like so many straining baby-bird mouths
in the hope that you would finally come around
to our sweet-tooth point of view. Which you never did.
So we mocked you, and we spurned you,
and we littered your lawn with our candy wrappers,
our chewed gum the sweet had gone out of,
the rinds and sticks of the much-lauded,
much-coveted candied apples your neighbor
Mrs. Schachtel gave out each year—the syrupy
antithesis to your dry and austere
number two pencils. But they survived,
it needs to be said, —when all that sugary
frivolity melted away, your stiffly formal
wooden gifts remained, like so many horizontal
soldiers standing at attention at the bottom
of the bag. Deployed in kitchen drawers,
desk drawers, jars jammed with pens, pencils,
brushes, penknives, magic markers, emery boards,
they were mostly overlooked, forgotten. Some of them
probably outlived my entire childhood. A few
probably outlived you. It's entirely possible
that one or two—--this one, for example,
which feels as sharp as the day it was first
sharpened--—could outlive me, too.
Nightmare
You’re attending a reunion
of all the people
you’ve slept with in your life--
it isn’t a large number,
less than legion, more
than minyan, a number
divisible only by itself and you.
It’s a formal gathering in a room with
large upholstered chairs
and potted weeping figs,
a small bar in the corner
where two women you don’t recognize
are seriously kissing, holding their drinks aloft
like tiny sloshing mountain lakes
in their slender raised hands. You aren’t
dressed for the occasion,
you realize as you look down
at your ashy underwear and ten
poor stubby toes. It seems
you’re expected to make a speech
which everyone has traveled far
through time and space to hear. You’re
unprepared. No script. No notes. You
haven’t even given it a thought. Now
you frantically ask one ex-lover
after another for a writing utensil. You
actually say “writing utensil” the way
your teacher said it in the 3rd grade.
No one has a pen. But someone
has an eye liner pencil. Now for
some paper. You’re holding a damp
drink napkin in your hand, shaking it
in the air to dry it. If only you
could write, you think, maybe
you could still make something out of this
nightmare, something beautiful and true.
About the Author
Paul Hostovsky's poems and essays appear widely online and in print. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. Website: paulhostovsky.com
About the Artist
Mac is a traditional and digital illustration student at Columbia College Chicago, with a minor in animation focused on motion design. Prominent in her work is heavy use of textures and hatching, and warm color palettes. Her work is primarily created with a combination of acrylic paints, inks, and the adobe suit. She is heavily inspired by the natural world and enjoys drawing most when surrounded by her many house plants. Website: macnificentart.com
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