Creative Writing

By Amyre Loomis

  

Undulations Persevere

                Her first niece and older sister’s daughter was born while Muriel attended her boyfriend’s family dinner over Labor Day weekend. Victor’s mother invited her to Baltimore; a seventy-something woman who wore oversized gemstone jewelry and wanted to keep her son’s relationship going. She explained the theology of friendship, loving and living as all being intertwined, and neither could succeed without the other. The combination of place, timing, and feelings happening in sync were imbedded into Muriel’s psyche as she assessed her relationships. His mother asked them to work on communication in their relationship and to be mindful that ebbs and flows will happen, and all would turnout as promised, just as it should be.

                They met the winter before at a National Brotherhood of Skiers conference out West. Clouds cleared at lunchtime on the third day of this group trip. Victor spied Muriel in line storing her skies. The Colorado Mountains in the distance blended with the sky. Muriel’s profile at the ski corral became carved in the peak.

“Hello down yonder, save me a seat, woman,” Victor said. “Hey you, over there.”

                Hats covered heads. She pretended not to know him, stiffened then turned slightly when he called the second time.

                “Do I know you? I guess your face looks somewhat familiar,” she said.

                A crowd gathered on the deck surrounding Shush Lounge. Muddy chairs and tables disappeared underneath jackets and polyester clothing. Charcoal and food infused the air.

                She asked why he was following her. She had saved him a chair anyway because skiers understood the process endured in exploring the mountain’s mass and terrain. The mental and physical exercise compelled a solidarity break. Snow sealed the outdoors and a waiter served hot cider with vanilla liquor around the wet table. After grilled burgers, mixed greens and Parmesan cheese fries the group headed back to the slopes.

                The atmosphere got colder as the chair lift climbed to the elevation pinnacle where they exited and separated to tackle the miles-long run. She and he ended up on the backside of a black slope together alone and plowed around the side of it overlooking a mountain range in the distance and above the downtown area; they passed a cafe, another chair lift and a ski school. They parted to handle bumpy terrain and then cut across blue and green runs down to the village. While skiing he thought about her drawing him while he had slept on the couch yesterday, his mouth slightly opened while he rested in front of the sliding glass doors of their group’s rented condominium. She displayed the picture in the kitchen for the six guests of the condo to observe, along with other candid sketches from this trip she came along on with her brother. Muriel included a lanky pine tree and half-moon seen through the sheer drapes behind Victor’s head in the picture.

                While everyone got dressed in the condo that evening, he kept looking at her from across the room. He would catch her figure at different angles when she crossed through the hallway.

                “Oh, so you like to push my buttons, don’t you,” he said. He stared at his drawing hanging on the refrigerator.

She caught snowflakes on her tongue as they walked to the rented mini van.

                It was Saturday Night at Shush Lounge; Victor sang Purple Rain; she replaced songs with dancing around, sipping hot wine then cracking up. A deep energy was felt. His shirt became unbuttoned and he pushed his hands down the back of her pants. Muriel placed her hands over his thighs and on top of his stiffened pants. During a long walk together back to their accommodations they kissed for an hour and smoked a joint copped at the bar. They fell into a snow pile, rolled and rolled. His hands rubbed her body up and down under her layered clothing and she kept her hands warm inside of his shirt and unzipped pants. They consumed each other as envisioning Eskimos that night. A crescent moon hung sideways above their faces. The air seemed warmer on this side of the mountain and when their seven days ended together in Colorado, they decided that he lived only a few states away from her, and a relationship might be possible.

                The Baltimore evening had become dark and now under the dinner table chandelier it felt autumnal already. Muriel blurted out to the group that her sister had given birth to her baby. It was an unconscious thought that came out of her mouth spontaneously. She took it back though, and rephrased the statement because her sister Suzette had said earlier that the labor was set to be induced in two days. Some of the family then went upstairs to prepare for a night out.

                She snapped pictures at the reggae concert that Victor took Muriel, his little sister and a cousin to and when preceding up the small driveway of the house, under the moonlight in the morning hours the kitchen lights glowed. Victor’s father told Muriel that her mother was trying to reach her and had called; she said her sister had given birth at 7:26 pm. The baby girl had exited her mother’s womb and entered the world as those exact words left Muriel’s lips earlier. Tears streamed from her eyes and her mother said Suzette had a natural childbirth, except for a mild muscle relaxer given during the middle of the twelve-hour labor and they had named the baby Corin. The grandparents had discussed mutual friends. Connections between these families throughout the generations surfaced. History and ties existed between the families due to migration from southern states to the North.

                Muriel left the next afternoon. The baby’s delivery stirred her, made her restless. She edited photographs for a living using her eyes, brain and hands at the same time and she had secured three positions at different publications climbing to senior art editor level. Her commute to Rockefeller Center from Brooklyn had become a tiring ritual for her and seeds of change had now been planted.

                Up early on a November Sunday morning, Muriel unconsciously dressed, and her feet followed her mind as usual. The tree deposited leaves on her shoulders while she crossed the street. She entered the church and sat; shoulders touched other worshippers. She listened, watched closely for messages. Memorial Baptist Church was built in 1860. The oak pews are cushioned with turquoise pillows. The choir harmonized calming the congregation and their voices incarnated a powerful presence. The singers wore monochromatic black clothing accented with scarves made of Kinte cloth. She stood at attention, a posture of reciprocity, mentally lifting from the pew and then she physically fell to her knees. Lost in the piano notes, the soprano’s song and singing words departing from her mouth, she raised her arms palms up opening an erogenous zone. Her favorite seat was in the middle section of the sanctuary about halfway to the pulpit merged alone in-between others.

                She noticed the man's dress shirt in front of her was not tucked in completely. The teenager with the suit on next to him stood gangly, and the women on the other side had a triangle of moles on the back of her neck. They held hands intermittently during the service.

                The pastor finished a glass of water, cleared his throat and nodded a good morning.

                “We welcome the Holy Spirit in our minds, hearts, and lives,” he said. “Please welcome your neighbors and tell them that God will keep his promises.”

                The eleven-thirty service lasted a hundred minutes. She felt refreshed as if after eight hours of sleep. Muriel and the small family standing in the pew in front of her introduced themselves to each other after the service and a text came in from Victor at the same time.

                Sag Harbor lit up the next July, as did the Atlantic Ocean seen through Ruthie’s restaurant. Nine including Muriel and her niece sat the end of the table and ate dessert. The sun sometimes suppressed her appetite, but this evening Muriel felt famished. It was the end of a summer vacation with her sister, niece, mother, a few cousins and friends. The live music started to play in the bar area, and they were deciding whether or not to stay there longer. She tilted her head backward while talking and caught the side of the eye of a man walking through the front door, and then towards her. She had not heard Victor’s voice in a few months.

                She remembered his words, the last that came out of his mouth when she had visited his apartment in Maryland during Easter break. “I feel guilty because I can’t promise you anything,” he said. “I really don’t want to hold you from meeting someone else …so let’s just be friends. I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

                Nothing negative had happened between them, except distance and unclear expectations. She had believed that their relationship was a supernatural connection, but he would not commit, and he then gave her an out. The hole in her heart from his void had finally begun to heal over and she had stopped replaying their memories in her mind. She planned to play it cool and keep her distance because she felt scarred. She had been on a few dates that summer …and other men were now on her mind. She had pushed him out of her heart and had run …the same way he had. 

                He walked right up to her.

                “Hey, Victor, hello, I’m surprised to see your face here,” she said. “I like your haircut. How are you?” Although calm, she felt tension between them and her heart leapt through her cleavage.

                “I heard that you were in town and I thought maybe I would find you here,” he said. “Your face was the first thing I noticed when I entered the door and you look really, really good. How is everything?”

                He held her niece Corin, and while he took time to sit next to her mother, across the table she slipped into an intoxicating state caused by chemicals bouncing inside her limbs and brain. The feelings were tangible, oozing out everywhere and still exactly the same. And after they both had a cocktail, he kissed her so boldly she thought he would tear her lips off. While walking home he carried her on the beach and threatened to toss her towards the moon and into the ocean. She convulsed from laughing and protesting and they fell rolling over the wet sand. 

                Although only getting three hours of sleep at his cottage the next morning they were energized from room-to-room lovemaking. She returned to her house first thing in the morning. She was traveling that same evening and no future plans were made with her and Victor.

                “Same time next year honey,” he said. She exited the car, walked to her front door and waved back.

                “Same time every year,” she said. He waved back to her from the car and pulled away.

                Several months passed and although Victor called a few times they had not gotten together. She was also guilty for not following through more, although she had anonymously hung up on his voicemail a few times. She felt vulnerable and decided she must call him again this week to talk about her impending plans. She prayed about it with her face to the ground and convulsed with uncertainty.

Right on his own time schedule, a healthy baby boy made his entrance a week early the following April. He weighed just shy of eight pounds and was twenty-inches long. Muriel cried and yelled during the childbirth and in intervals for two more days after she gave birth while in the Midwest with her family. She had been on spring vacation with her mother, her sisters and nieces and nephews in the Upper Peninsula when she went into labor. Blood and mucus had gotten all over the rented house. Only a two-hour labor, Muriel had been constipated, and she was pushing the baby while going to the bathroom that morning. She did not realize she was having contractions and dilating more and more. An ambulance finally came and took the mother and her newborn to the hospital. Within a day Victor had arrived and Suzette picked him up from the airport. His parents flew in too as did her brother and brother in-law.

                “My spirit has been taken to higher levels of connectedness. The birth really felt mostly like a dream, especially with that big moon and the North Star hanging so low in the sky above my window,” she said. “I remember thinking in that moment that it was the worst pain I had ever felt, yet satisfying some to me.” Muriel appeared drained, sweaty, thirsty.

“Funny thing is that I can’t remember the pain at all now,” she said.

                The group took turns keeping her company during the three-day hospital stay. The first few months as a mother were spent in Baltimore with Victor and their baby, and then she stayed six months with her parents who doted over the baby, before returning to Brooklyn. Muriel was learning to be a mother in the nest of her own mother’s house.

                Morning whistling birdsong and a fourteen-month old boy’s cries awakened Muriel from sleeping. She was living full-time back in her brownstone apartment, and she mimicked a marionette while floating out of the bed to the bathroom. Urine flowed and startled her as it tinged the toilet. Disinfecting her hands, cleansing her face and brushing her teeth seemed to occur at the same time as she freshened up for her toddler, who could now climb down from his bed all by himself. Blue Jays chanted and the sun ascended as little Christian smiled at his mother who looked down. He reached for her breast.

                “Maah, mah, meelk plees,” he said hugging her. “I want milk.”

                “Good morning sweetums, nope, not now only before bedtime. We'll have almond milk and oatmeal for breakfast. Let’s get ready; we have to get you to daycare,” she said. She picked him up.

                Christian’s father promised to commute from Baltimore on the weekends until his transfer to New York happened, when his financial services promotion was finalized. She had arranged a part-time schedule with her company, but today she planned to amble in springtime around her village. As they left the house, Christian directed his index finger at their cat laying the chair in near the window, underneath stored charcoal, paintbrushes and art supplies on built in shelves above. The feline was nestled in between falling drapes with ears pressed against the window.

                Christian’s spirit imitated a sea sponge soaking new things instantaneously. After trying two other daycare facilities, whose approaches did not work for Muriel’s ‘indigo’ child, she decided on an in-home childcare center. Teachers told her that he was the kid who led the class in their assignments. He responded no to plenty of questions too. The center encouraged toddlers to play in the backyard garden and the children brushed their teeth after snacking.

                She daydreamed as she parked her stroller, carried Christian inside and then exited the childcare center. She remembered her annual ski trip this past February out West with Victor. His parents kept the baby that week. What a contrast in nature existed between the two visual scenes. New York City’s mountains are the Manhattan skylines. He had told her that he wanted her, and she was beautiful and was funny to him.  They both exchanged I love yous.

                She walked underneath a Ginkgo Biloba tree with smelly fruit and picked up litter on the sidewalk near her brownstone duplex that the pair was now negotiating to purchase. Dandelions lived in-between the stone cracks. Breezes caught petals and bird feathers.

                “Hey Al, good morning to you,” she said. Her ancient neighbor Mr. Thomas was sitting on his front steps getting a dose of vitamin D and did not notice her until she turned the door key.

                “Good morning dear. It sure is warm today,” he said. He waved. She waved back to him opening her front door and walked up three flights of stairs to the top.

                Her cat growled in a ball on leather chair as she entered her home. A dead bee rested inside the windowsill as she opened the curtains. A daytime moon was in the sky. She checked her phone messages. The babysitter was available on Saturday and Victor said he would call back because he could not find a flight and might drive. She planned the upcoming weekend in her mind without him, knowing him, just in case. Besides, she had a drawing class at the Botanic Gardens. Christian would stay with the babysitter until late afternoon that day. Whenever she traveled, she sketched too. While skiing she drew the pine trees twisting alongside the chair lifts. On Long Island she recorded the seagulls during an evening as sun merged the ocean, and in Brooklyn she sketched exotic plants and brownstone buildings. She drew Victor sometime while lying down naked on their king-size mattress next to Christian. He would let her draw the lines of his figure, despite his initial protests.

                An hour later she bounded out letting the inside door slam behind her. Pulling up weeds she walked backwards away from the house. The day was young and a walk of city streets to record was on her agenda. She and Christian will prepare for his father anyhow, he came in waves, rippling the current of their lives. She anticipated a visit soon from Suzette this month as well. The first cousins had grown very close.

***

A Culmination

Moon light glows rounded

pools together inside burst

pregnant with Sun’s child

center’s middle-point deepens

three-quarter Moon to just full

Moon falls behind trees

rests on lopsided belly

North Star follows Moon

Behind trees and a building

contractions overcome both

The End

Poetry by Amyre Loomis

 

 

The Familiar

Collaboration

corner store community

coffee eggs trashcans

family birds trees brownstone squirrels

university church cars

Neighbors bus sidewalks

street gingko biloba fruit

refrigerator

poets condoms writers sheets

sink dog bathtub computer

Drapes doorknob window

milk tears wine water friends cries time

coat face hands man cap keys

clothing couch mattress oven

fantasies me underwear

A Wintry Sunrise

cough sniff couh cuf caf

ah shew ash sho as hoo whoo

sun rises skies rise

air purifying

curing cold cleaning cleansing

blinds face warming eyes

octopus arms flood

orange penetrates closed eyelids

spreading sunrise fire

icy sidewalks stretch

rises shut inside these eyes

which sun’s the real one

early striped sunrise

turquoise tangerine and white

planes make lines in rows

a bird lands on branch

rests small body on feathers

its asleep or hurting

tree limb of branch bends

single sparrow silhouettes

bird sings and launches

tops of trees arch backs

red-yellow early hellos

door closes car starts

head looks side to side

neighbor leans out top window

retreats closing shades

direct contact sears

when staring into sun’s eye

confusion damaged

wavy clouds stream light

fading sky matches my mood

sunrises resemble sunsets

sniff sooof huchoo bed

unhuh hmm coaw faw ooh oh

sunrise, rise sunrise

Silent Entry

wednesday, february 20: 8:40pm - lenten midweek service at brown memorial ends. I zip up my midnight down coat, tie the lavender xmas gift around my neck and put on wrinkled leather gloves. the church empties, staff and singers exit doors behind pulpit in the direction of offices. churchgoers leave the sanctuary front door spilling onto washington avenue. four people including myself remain gathering our possessions to move onward. a woman and man enter the cathedral at this moment, heads covered with scarves and legs with jeans. high-pitched cries of pain echo in the silent space, translating off meditative walls. slowly, under bright quiet lights the pair walks down the center aisle’s red carper towards the pulpit. the tan man sits on a pew nearby, and this woman falls to her knees underneath the mosaic tile portraits of Jesus’ disciples and murals of angels looking down over her. Wailing, crying, screaming, yelling her inner silence leaves her heart speaking through her soul as agony and suffering. approaching the scene I inquire. I think to fall on my knees but my legs paralyze, gloves and my red-letter book toss onto mahogany table and I twist my hand in hers. my son, my son they killed him she says. they shot him! lifting her hand into mine, I rub her palm, feel the lifelines, spread the brown fingers, and raise the bitten nails imprinted with cigarette smoke to my lips to kiss. a free hand rubs her crown and cheek and energy is softly transferred back and forth. Her chin remains tucked down, ears exposed to me as the sobs grow. it’s my fault, the drugs, I let this happen she says. my hands rub palm, a massaging transfer continues. meanwhile, a man with eyeglasses stills the forty-something women on her other side. with his mute presence and another women standing in front of this mother praying over her, the three of us comfort, evangelize, animatedly requesting, praying, demanding blessings and halleluiahs, healing, favor, amens and why answers, more than five minutes at least fifteen pass while in this frozen moment. time disappears while we three cover the mother. her refuge from cold …heat increases a movement moment occurring, and a long-winded help me exhales before her inward collapse. her physical body releases and limply crumbles as her arms pull down to her side. this woman’s neck then stretches, straightens and the four of us break the transient silent moment. lightly I lift my eyes to see fifteen bodies surrounding us. staff, singers and senior pastor gaze amazed. My body then trembles as the angel I was a conduit for passes through silently, translating whispers and leaving my insides. 

 

 

 

Night Breaks in the Backyard

nothing is really finished, but living a longtime probably ends  soon

it means a breakaway for my feline who has lasted 15 circular years

her paws rock an aged gate this morning, long nail tips tap hard floors

I know who’s always home and often wonder whose home it is anymore

matted hair spreads across a cat’s sleeping side, and in wooden corners

I find her soft bowel movements and gray brown vomit - color matches

her long coat’s color, she tears stares at me too, she must think life lasts

I jump on my neon blue bicycle to ride under early pouring rain-water

the raindrops encourage a slow sigh, and an unsettled rumble is heard

overhead stirring this village while the unnoticeable warmth steams it

rain wets my noontime shoulders and my rubber bicycle wheels turn

the spring afternoon rising uphill on Lafayette Avenue’s bicycle path

the best part for me is the wind spitting on my face as I cycle along

forward and each minute becomes the start to an essential adventure

white sunshine paces its warmth surprising my held down full face

my mind is saying what I want to do, my heart says what I want to say

veggie juice smacks ice inside an antibacterial bottle set in my basket

my slanted eyes peer through cracks of silhouetted Brooklyn trees

this weekend I am a visitor going house to house seeking sustenance

and while cycling alone tears hold back, I wonder how my life matters

the last stop becomes the kitchen and backyard of Mercedes and Joe

brr, chop, brr, brr their Cuisinart purees a rainbow of ripened peppers

the peachy pulp oddly matches my earlier pacing cat’s slanted mouth

in the background a Spanish voice sings along with metered drumbeats

imagined trumpets and saxophones swing with a pitchy singer’s mouth

while my mouth salivates from smelling turkey patties on foil cooking

over burning coals and making wet juices pop atop their steaming grill

five friends sit rounding this bbq pit, gassy smoke saturates hair & skin

our clothes and some ghosts are memorialized through the ashen coals

fire softens the light tonight along with marshmallows, chocolate, crackers

attracting sounds between the two tall fences, two dogs snore next door

along with an array of rustling noises from unknown aliens, bitty nostrils,

beady eyes then show in motion sensor lights, maybe a rabbit, a squirrel

or possum, but high cheekbones and  rubbery tails run tearing bushes, nails

gripped metal gates and  rats break dying in the black and chased by a cat

Nests of people seen on train seats and platforms traveling North

It is inevitable once something set, something in motion it can never be reversed,

simply irreversible, immigrants just moved obstacles while on way to destiny

had somewhere to go somewhere to be, power gave them a destination and more

hindrances when ready to go in their right direction a  return was not expected

what would you have done if there were two different bibles to swear the truth

on, Black and White to tell the truth on, if the holy word were segregated and

me and you could not touch the same sacred object or sip the same water glass

sit together in the same classrooms due to a racial hierarchy, what would you do?

forced immigrants spent time in the deep forest then from the cave they came

into the light and learned acting like a white person equaled a perceived breach of

the caste system then South woke up to discover every Negro gone, every solvent

sucked out it was time to decide to put away the whips and guns and look, North

WWI instigated the first decade of the US great migration six-million had options,

choices for the first time forced immigrants and their children had a choice to

be who they would be what life intended them to be, from being held in a ditch

both sides got in this ditch creating lost potential, but migration streams liberated

the American story is people who met that would have not met, and singular decisions

brought from South carried in heart to the North: songs and poems, music blues jazz

people who changed a culture by developing potential migrating for unborn grands

jumping off a cliff, and still had nothing did it anyway - about the power of decision

individuals freed themselves the moment of departure, unspoken hope for dreams

across the barrier guaranteed not to see family members again, yes a complete break

from all known and loved this level of sacrifice inspired others to make most of bales

of cotton which hides history of what people endured, the immigrant experience then

became dislocation reinvention and they did what any human would do, barreled forth

 

Traditions of Spiritual Engagement

I have found a flower and I intend to pluck it

sex is really about expansion and connection

still trying to take my focus off the human body

placing it on the white light

I now know this man that can love naturally;

he knows the moon is inside of the sky when it hides at night

and the most powerful things are: earth, sky, and sea

= (people, elephant, hawk, and dolphin)

He speaks the Queen’s English and only the best is good enough.

And when the response from them is “We’ve heard,”

then I know I must be nice to everyone,

and I won’t look at ugly things

(guess I’ll have to fake the white-sheet stain test though)

cannot wait to be the latest rumor in town,

our backs will stand up straight as if transporting

eggs, chickens, or coconuts on our heads

when walking up the dirt road. 

 

 

 

 

 

Your Bones

You become my on-call   nurturer and a gigolo’s

force grabs   my collarbone and wet aureoles wail

legs are splayed   high for depth in-between thighs

we let me   bruise in this bed of merged material

bumping energy molecules   silent on ethylic beats

Translation of Thoughts

 I always thought there was something

for me in the big wide world

apparently there was nothing for me at all

but as I try and try, I start to realize

there is more and more as I explore

as I explore I found more and more

and everything I was looking for

I became the person I wanted to be

the person I was looking for

and everyone I saw inside me

as I started to explore

everything came and more

everything turned out perfectly

the person inside of me the person inside

finally came out and she told everybody

who she wanted to be and that girl

became the person she wanted to be

she became the person inside

and who she wanted to be

she is becoming the person she can be

Amyre Loomis is finishing her MFA in Creative Writing at the Brooklyn Campus of Long Island University and works as a research fellow. Born and raised in Detroit, she currently resides in NYC and Southfield, MI.  She holds a BA in English from the University of Michigan, and completed a BFA in Studio Art at Richmond, The American International University in London with a concentration in Lens Media. Amyre earned a living as a communications director for the New York City Council this past decade and volunteered as a reading/writing buddy for the public school system. Now, she utilizes her creative and media skills within the faith community. She is published in the Downtown Brooklyn Journal, the Brooklyn Paramount, One World Magazine and authored a poetry column for a Detroit newsletter. Amyre is one of a set of natural triplets, two girls and a boy and appeared in Jet Magazine’s photos of the week.