Day of the Dead by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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DEATH MASK
By Stan Zumbiel Empty eyes follow everywhere, observing the action in the room— the chess match now in its second hour, his wife dancing away grief to "Devil with the Blue Dress On," hoisting her skirt just a little above her knee, two friends with a bottle of brandy between them laughing quietly at a macabre joke, his grandmother's crocheted doily on the end table, a rough ceramic bowl holding a bit of weed and a package of Zig Zag papers. Maybe someone would hang a joint between his white porcelain lips, denying darkness. HIS INTRICATE DRAWING By Stan Zumbiel Each penciled line of her body leaps from the paper as if in the morning it could walk from the shower leaving six dewy footprints on the carpet. |
Where Time Stood Still by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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THREAT OF DAWN By Stan Zumbiel The afternoon sun puts the name of the café on the dark wooden table where sometimes there's not even a chess board in the background, where a woman bends toward me with her finger raised making a point that's not about feminism, where is a table for bridge but no one there. Outside a man shuffles by addressing God in clear words. I order another round because youth protects me from loud music and any disturbing image that might walk by, any specter asking for spare change on the same corner where I will kiss goodnight a wonderful girl, her wine breath clearing the night air, showing stars and their patterns charted by an astrologer in a basement office where stars never go. LIGHT GLEAMING AN INSTANT By Stan Zumbiel White clapboards painted yearly, eaten by salt winds, frame windows that reflect passing boats in the sun's low light. We spent the day walking the loud beach, scooping empty shells and stones hollowed by sea water and cast onto the sand. Dark, aided by the shadow of the bridge, spreads premature night on the river shore just as it widens to embrace the sea. An image in place of an Image, the stark blue of sky conceals stars with light. Behind the neon "Open" and "Budweiser on Tap" my wife and I sit at a table with a plastic cloth. Fluorescent bulbs, gaseous light. We drink wine from small water glasses and stare past the window. Boats with dim lights enter the harbor. The waitress doesn't see the oncoming night and delivers without comment our lightly breaded snapper. A bottle of vinegar appears from her apron – practiced sleight of hand born of boredom. The seabirds are quiet and sleeping where they sleep. Even now a gull is dying in the dunes among bunched grasses; he is hiding and looking at the sky when his heart stops. When the flesh of that Pacific snapper who had been pulled from the sea that day meets my teeth and tongue, I feel myself swim in cold water. For a moment we swim side by side under the darkening ocean. More wine, and the cook looks out his pass-through while big pots steam behind him. I've returned to that coastal town many times. I've searched in daylight and at night, but that diner is gone. I stand where it might have been, staring out over the beach to the sea. Stars line up creating patterns that forge meaning with the sweet smell of darkness.  Stan Zumbiel |
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