Manic Monday

Choices

The light-brown Mourning Dove pecked at the kernel of cracked corn.

Fat with grain, she hobbled, still eating.

Springtime and eggs are coming.

She waddles and pecks, driven by instinct.

The only thing more powerful than the need to eat,

is the need to nest.

She ;picks up a single bristle from an old broom.

She gathers brown withered weeds.

She collects a shimmery piece of Christmas tinsel.

Her beak is fat with strings, twigs, and strands of whatnot.

She sees another kernel of corn.

Her beak is full.

Kernel of corn.

Beak is full.

Her thoughts cannot go in two directions.

Corn.

Strings.

Eat.

Nest.

The snow begins to fall, as snow does in February.

Kernel.

Thread.

The snow falls on her back turning her light brown feathers snowy white.

The quandary plays over in her mind.

The snow falls.

Her eyes dart back and forth.

Grain.

Bedding.

The flurry gains force and her feet disappear in the snow.

It covers the grain.

The Mourning Dove tries to remember why she’s sitting in the snow.

_____________________________

Josh Jones

 

Manic Monday: Resumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
_____________________
Dorothy Parker, “Resumé” from The Portable Dorothy Parker, edited by Brendan Gill. Copyright 1926, 1928 and renewed 1954, © 1956 by Dorothy Parker. Reprinted with the permission of Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Source: The Portable Dorothy Parker (Penguin Books, 2006)

Super Sperm

I’ve been thinking about sperm today. Not ordinary sperm, but super sperm–the kind real men used to grow. When I was in high school, one of my classmates got pregnant. Back then, getting pregnant outside of the holy bonds of wedlock sucked. It usually implied sexual intercourse. But not always.

The girl who got pregnant—I’ll call her Deborah—was a virgin. And yet, she was with child. Knocked up. Bun in the oven. She was in a family way, through no fault of her own. It was very sad. Very unfair.

Deborah got pregnant sitting on toilet seat some guy had recently pleasured himself on. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Sperms used to be so powerful. Hell, a young woman could relieve herself in a public restroom, and leave defiled. After hearing Deborah’s story, I never sat on a public toilet seat again; I knew a sperm could break through one those flimsy paper seat covers, waiting to get at one of my unsuspecting eggs. Though my childbearing years are far behind me, I still don’t sit on public toilet seats. Over the years, I’ve perfected my aim.

Annie Aronson: grandmother, writer, fabulous.