By: J.B. Hill
What to Say
When I say, “How are you?”
I don’t know what that means.
A person who says such a thing
could be worried, curious, benign.
No one knows.
What if I say,
“Let me know if you need anything.”
That would not be better.
Asking you to work out
pie or pot or primroses in the afternoon
will not get you out of bed,
off the floor,
downstairs.
And if I say, “What do you need today? Right now?”
That’s a little better, I suppose.
But not much. Because I know that
thinkingchoosingfeelingwanting
is as hard as climbing a slick boulder
on your knees
in the rain
while shot in the gut.
So, no. I won’t do that.
I won’t ask you any questions.
But I’ll stand at your door
with a lasagna and
hibiscus and mint iced tea
I’ll text you:
I’m here. I can stay or go. I’ll wait.
I have an ammonite
in my pocket
I brought just for you.
Also, we can watch
that dragon movie.
Or not.
Way down the road,
next to the lake, during the
orange, pink, blue time of day,
you’ll remember who you are.
A ladybug will fall from the sky
onto your nose and stay with you
for twenty-two seconds.
You’ll look in the direction
where it flew
and see the low hung moon
chase away the sun.
I’ll say that.
Escaping a Tsunami
How can I let go of you now?
You've seen my panic-stricken face.
You know the sharp stone
that vibrates in my belly.
I don't know
where it came from
but you have one too.
I dream of scooping out the rock
from my body
like an avocado pit.
I carve it into a bookend
and offer to do yours.
The pain in our guts could be
bookends shaped like
funny monkeys covering their eyes.
They each have a fez
and wicked little smiles.
I see the books of life.
"Don't read these books,"
the monkeys say.
I invite you over
and point to a strange book
called Escaping a Tsunami.
We scratch our heads
and talk about the title
and what it means
and if we could.
We sit a long time
discussing whether we should
pick up the book and read it,
despite the warnings.
You say, "Yes."
Inside there is one word—
GO—
and hundreds of drawings of
sweeping bits of landscapes
and a beacon of light
on a mysterious mountaintop
painted in gold—
dozens of pages filled with tree roots,
twisted and gorgeous,
thirsty and thrilling.
Still.
"Is that real gold?" I ask.
"Are these real places?" you ask.
We can barely make out the world
in this strange book
that tells us to go.
It is a map that shows a way out of terror.
In my head, I say I’m not sure what love is anymore. “I do,” you say out loud. We wish ourselves, away, away, away.
J.B. Hill earned a BFA in Writing, Literature, and Publishing from Emerson College. Her recent poetry and short stories have been published, and are forthcoming, in the San Antonio Review, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, The Dillydoun Review, Coastal Shelf Literary Journal, Funicular Magazine, Bridge Eight Literary Magazine, and Wild Roof Journal. Hill has also been a featured storyteller and poet for organizations including Hearsay Poetry, Testify, The Living Room, and The Story Department. She has worked as a reporter in Boston, a screenplay analyst in Los Angeles, and a freelance writer and editor in Austin. Hill is a devoted outdoor, cold-water swimmer, amateur naturalist, and textile artist. You can find her at www.ideamakerupper.com, on Instagram (@ideamakerupper), and on Facebook ( @jbhillwriter).