THE SHINE JOURNAL

Flash Literature, Poetry, Art and Photography!

 

Heather Ann Schmidt

 

Joyeaux Noel

 

 

Celine stands behind the counter

at Le Petit Prince, a patisserie,

on the corner

of 14 Mile and Pierce

in the old neighborhood

where I make my yearly trek

to buy gateaux and cookies

for Christmas.

Men and women come in

and speak to her in French

like they have for the past 40 years

ordering brioche and buche de noel

for parties.

“Joyeaux Noel,” she says

as they leave.

My son touches the glass display

and asks her how to open it

She smiles

and I try to distract him.

I ask for the delicately painted snowmen

for the childrenʼs stockings on

Christmas morning,

trying to put pieces of my past

into their lives.

I remember walking six blocks

from home

to the corner to get mille feuille,

many layers to cover

my school dress

something to do

while I waited for Dad

to come home.

I would sneak it in my room

and hide it in my closet

because it had alcohol in it

and good Presbyterian girls

didnʼt drink or write poetry

about making love to their boyfriends

by the duck pond

on a blanket under ash trees.

The only evidence that remained-

calligraphy ink on my ngers

and a burning in my throat.

 

 

 

Photo/Art (c)Billy Alexander

 

 

Upon Seeing an Old Beau

 

 

It could have been a

San Francisco beach

or an A&P parking lot

where you saw me-

twenty years

reduced to munitia.

To look at us now,

one would never believe

that first kisses

produced snow stung

cheeks

and modesty covered thighs,

now canals for new life.

Maps of years

traced over our eyes,

stories of places seen,

dreams we breathed out

underneath Aurora Borealis' flickering.

But your voice has the

same questioning tone

meandering through rings of sound

and  pearls

fall on the floor,

astonished.

 

 

The Sculptor

For Laura

 

 

She comes into the room

eyes down,

disrobed.

The left side

concave, barren.

The right areola, exposed

to the light.

I build her silhouette

in my mind.

Warming my hands,

I listen

to her story...

her light rises,

covers me.

The first 120 days

the poison filled her

and her husband

cast his eyes upon her

ashen skin,

beauty encompassing.

I walk out of the room

to sculpt her body

out of silk and cotton,

restoring the facade

of womanhood

already inside.

 

copyright Heather Ann Schmidt

 

 


BIO: Heather Ann Schmidt is an MFA student at National University whose poems have appeared in The GNU Journal and The Clarkston News. She has poems forthcoming in Word Catalyst and Della Donna. Visit her at http://www.myspace.com/heatherannschmidt

 

Motivation For Each Work: My life.