Free The Ghosts of Jay MillAr by Jay Millar Page B

and exploded
    random swizzle sticks from the bar shot randomly
    through the necks of people as they attempted to bite
    their raw bacon sandwiches
    we always ordered the same thing, ham and eggs,
    it was terrible, boring placenta and rubber tar,
    as though we were desperately hoping each day would move
    to a perfected level of chaos and since the world
    around us seemed destined to remain exactly the same
    but fall to pieces and us in the middle
    it was ridiculous, the calm bite on a fork that could not
    bother to complain about infinite possibilities
    but about food instead
    every day we left a smaller tip
    not because the service was bad
    we were growing more and more concerned
    about the monetary value of things
    where we were heading
    back in this light there comes a sigh
    a bodily shift to the blood a little faster
    Perfectly Ordinary Dream #o (March 19,1992)
    I met my wife in a photograph my father showed me.
    In it I am wearing full 1920s speakeasy regalia,
    complete with Doc Martens for the futuristic effect that was
    popular at the time, my trousers rolled up at the bottom,
    my hands in the pockets of my jacket
    and a green scarf around my neck.
    I face the camera with a broad grin.
    My wife is standing three or four feet away,
    turn’d sideways, (it is a landscape photo,
    taken on our trip to the mountains, none of which,
    amazingly, and thankfully, can be seen.
    The colours of the sky in the background are recognizable as clouds.
    The sun must be setting for the colours offer’d.)
    She is also wearing the aforementio’d uniform,
    however hers is more form-fitting, while mine, slightly oversiz’d
    makes me look broad shoulder’d and relaxed.
    She has a small elfin face and huge eyes, fawn-like
    in appearance, with a quick animation of the face
    hovering silently between a defiant pout and
    blonde blonde hair cut short against her skull
    bright enough to see by but not blinding.
    She had attitude and a beautiful ass.
    I recognized immediately how obviously in love we
    were obviously in love.
    My father showed me the photo because I had given it to him as a
    Christmas present a few years earlier when I had no money,
    could afford little else, and thought perhaps he would enjoy learning
    about his heritage. What better gift could there be?
    It’s sure funny how things come around.
    And I was soon to meet my wife in person at her mother’s house
    after the war. It was New Year’s Eve, I remember, and time
    was prepared to stand still. God, in retrospect it was beautiful
    when she came up the stairs from the sunken living room
    (all the rooms were in shifting panels of brown and accents of soft orange;
    the den contained curving plastic furniture against the wall
    on the shag carpeting, and the local tv station was on, flickering
    a news report about the little aliens). She looked about 14 and her
    hair was still golden, even after all that time. She was such a tiny creature,
    mayfly as in the photograph, and so happy to meet me, O! those eyes…
    How hopelessly in love we were, finally comfortable in the peace of
    one another’s iron grip after being forced apart for so many years.
    Let me tell you of how we were forced apart.
    During dinner we couldn’t stop casting glances across
    the table and laughing nervously. The duck was absolutely
    delicious, with an almost piscine appearance, and
    tasting of chocolate mousse. Afterward, on our way to the
    liquor store for provisions, from the back seat I heard
    her say a sad joke about the size of her breasts, but I
    didn’t mind. I knew in time I would come to love her self-
    destructive sense of humour. Picking her up at the
    passenger door I carried her across the parking lot. Wind
    blew all around us, shooting clouds back and forth, pushing the
    sun into a tiny ball of post-war boom and drinking songs.
    We didn’t even know each other, regardless of whether the air
    could actually disappear and dance menacingly across