Free 2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) by Nath Jones Page A
Authors: Nath Jones
marriage is and the rest gets
squeezed out. The rest is a hobby. The rest is a part-time job at
the deli. Or it’s the doctor’s nurse. Whatever. Look at it. The
feminists cut off one side of the canyon—their duty to their
mother. And lesbians cut off the other—their love for a man.
But what is that?
Steeped so long in what all I’ve just said,
without replacing those barriers with another of the same
magnitude—like social isolation, hatred, contempt, or artistry—that
woman is bound to dribble away. And if she is not taken for insane,
she is only a thin film with her cohesive force, her memories of
self from childhood.
Even so. It is time that is the enemy. If a
woman can remove one side of the canyon, love for a man or duty to
the mother, and stop time simultaneously, then she is preserved.
She would be tall and stand like a sculpture formed from the mold
of her mind. The beauty of her vision of the future—the part of her
that would correspond to the pressure of her love for one man—on
one side. And on the other, the side that affronted her duty for
her mother, would be her integrity, responsibility, and perception
of the past. It would be her. Frozen there and beautiful.
He wants to kiss her. And he wants to run.
He tilts his head back toward the sky and wishes she could relax or
trust him or see what he sees. Tears flood his eyes and the stars
swim past and away so as not to be intrusive. He blinks several
times and stands up. She fidgets and wants him to talk. She doesn’t
want him to be hurt. She just wants him to understand.
Him: I love you. And that’s not going to
change. I knew you needed more from me and I thought that meant
marriage.
He looks at her. Her face is blank and her
body inert.
Him: But if more is realizing I’m a mold or
a barrier or Y or whatever and I’ve got to go—I don’t know. Shit.
I—
She laughs.
Her: Don’t get all deep on me, Babe. You
want to make me cry?
He laughs and shakes his head. But yes. He
wants her to cry. Other girls would cry. He wants her to wear the
stupid ring and be happy. He wants her to have everything. He wants
her to understand.
Him: God damn it. All I want to know is do
you want this fucking ring? Because if you don’t, I can take it
back and buy a motorcycle.
Her: Oh. Yeah. Please buy a motorcycle. I
love all those songs about motorcycles. Would you take me for
rides, Babe?
He closes the little black velvet box around
the ring and shoves it in his pocket. He picks her up and throws
her over his shoulder.
Him: Fuck the motorcycle. I’ll take you for
a ride right now.
She stops him, puts her
hands on his chest, and looks him in the eye. Her: I just don't want to have kids. I'm worried I'll fuck it
up. That they'll fuck me up.
Him: Okay. Why didn't you just say that?
Her: I didn't know how. It doesn't seem like
something you're supposed to say.
Him: Supposed to say to who? Fuck it. It's
just me.
He kisses her on the hip and climbs over the
railing. The lights are orange over the water and the sky is close.
He looks at the moon, that half-moon that you always wish is more
poetic, and jumps into the river, letting her laugh and scream and
cling to him all the way down.
SAD ASIAN FACE
Sad Asian face
in a trench coat alley
letting the snow go
all around his
thinning uncovered head.
Warm brown face
in an altogether
huge gray world.
Letting looks go
too often towards
the pavement and
opening his closing
gloved fists repeatedly
against the cold
professorial thoughts.
MONDAY
NIGHT RAIN WITH FOOTBALL
The room was really too small for the size
of all the men on the television. Like looking through a child's
dollhouse window: valiant Patriots and runaway Dolphins came
through the screen to us sweaty, and heaving.
A fat Christmas tree wore a
single ornament in the way a poor girl might wear a silver chain.
It must have been a gift. The talk was small, filled with I remembers and
the Well if I was him s.
We all
squeezed out. The rest is a hobby. The rest is a part-time job at
the deli. Or it’s the doctor’s nurse. Whatever. Look at it. The
feminists cut off one side of the canyon—their duty to their
mother. And lesbians cut off the other—their love for a man.
But what is that?
Steeped so long in what all I’ve just said,
without replacing those barriers with another of the same
magnitude—like social isolation, hatred, contempt, or artistry—that
woman is bound to dribble away. And if she is not taken for insane,
she is only a thin film with her cohesive force, her memories of
self from childhood.
Even so. It is time that is the enemy. If a
woman can remove one side of the canyon, love for a man or duty to
the mother, and stop time simultaneously, then she is preserved.
She would be tall and stand like a sculpture formed from the mold
of her mind. The beauty of her vision of the future—the part of her
that would correspond to the pressure of her love for one man—on
one side. And on the other, the side that affronted her duty for
her mother, would be her integrity, responsibility, and perception
of the past. It would be her. Frozen there and beautiful.
He wants to kiss her. And he wants to run.
He tilts his head back toward the sky and wishes she could relax or
trust him or see what he sees. Tears flood his eyes and the stars
swim past and away so as not to be intrusive. He blinks several
times and stands up. She fidgets and wants him to talk. She doesn’t
want him to be hurt. She just wants him to understand.
Him: I love you. And that’s not going to
change. I knew you needed more from me and I thought that meant
marriage.
He looks at her. Her face is blank and her
body inert.
Him: But if more is realizing I’m a mold or
a barrier or Y or whatever and I’ve got to go—I don’t know. Shit.
I—
She laughs.
Her: Don’t get all deep on me, Babe. You
want to make me cry?
He laughs and shakes his head. But yes. He
wants her to cry. Other girls would cry. He wants her to wear the
stupid ring and be happy. He wants her to have everything. He wants
her to understand.
Him: God damn it. All I want to know is do
you want this fucking ring? Because if you don’t, I can take it
back and buy a motorcycle.
Her: Oh. Yeah. Please buy a motorcycle. I
love all those songs about motorcycles. Would you take me for
rides, Babe?
He closes the little black velvet box around
the ring and shoves it in his pocket. He picks her up and throws
her over his shoulder.
Him: Fuck the motorcycle. I’ll take you for
a ride right now.
She stops him, puts her
hands on his chest, and looks him in the eye. Her: I just don't want to have kids. I'm worried I'll fuck it
up. That they'll fuck me up.
Him: Okay. Why didn't you just say that?
Her: I didn't know how. It doesn't seem like
something you're supposed to say.
Him: Supposed to say to who? Fuck it. It's
just me.
He kisses her on the hip and climbs over the
railing. The lights are orange over the water and the sky is close.
He looks at the moon, that half-moon that you always wish is more
poetic, and jumps into the river, letting her laugh and scream and
cling to him all the way down.
SAD ASIAN FACE
Sad Asian face
in a trench coat alley
letting the snow go
all around his
thinning uncovered head.
Warm brown face
in an altogether
huge gray world.
Letting looks go
too often towards
the pavement and
opening his closing
gloved fists repeatedly
against the cold
professorial thoughts.
MONDAY
NIGHT RAIN WITH FOOTBALL
The room was really too small for the size
of all the men on the television. Like looking through a child's
dollhouse window: valiant Patriots and runaway Dolphins came
through the screen to us sweaty, and heaving.
A fat Christmas tree wore a
single ornament in the way a poor girl might wear a silver chain.
It must have been a gift. The talk was small, filled with I remembers and
the Well if I was him s.
We all
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