THE SHINE JOURNAL
Flash Literature, Poetry, Art and Photography!
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 fingers
and a burning in my throat.
Photo/Art (c)Billy Alexander
Upon Seeing an Old Beau
It could have been a
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
Motivation For Each Work: My life.
