July 26-August 1, 2004: Lea C. Deschenes and P. Nidzgorski

week of July 26-August 1, 2004

Lea C Deschenes and P Nidzgorski

click here for submission guidelines

Lea C Deschenes

Bio (auto)

Lea C Deschenes once found a five-leaf clover during a solar eclipse A graphic/web designer in Worcester, MA by day, she is the author eight self-published chapbooks, most recently “Life Is a Bridge On Fire” and is shopping her first full-length manuscript, “The Dream Corridor ” while writing her second, “You ” Her work has appeared in Spillway, Blue Satellite, 2×4, Incidental Buildings & Accidental Beauty and So Luminous the Wildflowers.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Lea C Deschenes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Wedding Cards

When they hand you the ring,
you understand it is the key
to your card house
Between you, you have created
your mutual cathedral:
sacred arches based on leaning,
each placed beam three times
recalculated from the mechanics
of collapse
You’ve agreed to cheat,
using as much glue along the seams
as you can, as much cellophane
and tape as you can without
destroying the lines
of architecture
You’ve built baffles out of plexiglass
to stop the wind, but you live
among isosceles, the gorgeous product
of your communal labors
in full knowledge it is fragile:

One hurricane,
one strip poker night,
one slipped wrist turned
while adjusting the apex of the nave,
one wrong word at a resonant frequency,
could topple
it all
Some believe they shelter
under brick and stone
to the point of being crushed by it
Some refuse uncertainty,
prefer the shudder of the cold
against their skin
We build this unlikely thing between us
for the same reasons we make art
that serves no purpose, will be forgotten
in a thousand years, or ten –

for the satisfaction of the work,
the beauty of the product,
the solid feel of what you bless together
with your own four hands –

We come home at night knowing
that even if the high odds
rip every piece of this from us,
the attempt at forever
was made in good faith
For whatever time it stands,
the pieces used for numberless games
become the outlines of our sanctuary,
this place where no one bluffs,
holding nothing to our chest or up our sleeves,
our hands out flat across the morning table,
and no one
needs to win.

Staring At the Sea

You were born inland on an average day,
unnotable to anyone but you and those close at hand Your life rolled out to follow-strings of small events
marking you where their makers cannot see
Here you are, halfway through, more or less You never imagined you’d make it this far You always knew your wick was burning at both ends You write about fire all the time because you’re standing in it
It’s turned out longer than you thought, thanks
to a marrow-meshed stubbornness keeping
the string of you soaking in oil before it consumes itself,
even when the wax is long gone, your soul
a bare filament floating in a lamp on the table
This is the only way you know, to be a mermaid
forsaken by the water, the dry land like coals underfoot,
the barest sun a bonfire on your skin Your mother tongue will never feel native
when you speak it to the insubstantial air
You are almost used to walking about
on dry land having something to lose,
to being seen for whatever it is you are
despite all your best deceptions,
speaking fire while staring at the sea
When you tell the truth, mostly no one believes you
because the truth is complex and contradictory,
an oil fire on the ocean: dangerous, subjectively skewed
You only divulge what portions seem today to be relevant The ignition of the slick with a sailor’s cigarette The sand to glass Fish drowning in liquid Precambrian ooze,
the revenge of eukaryotes overtaken by lizards
The scarlet of the sunset as it pierces through the smoke The irritation in your lungs that lets you know you’re breathing
You are almost reconciled with being forever out of your element,
whatever undiscovered isotope contains it,
at your remaining unanswered questions remaining
Your story continues, amoral:
You will be foam on the seashore, one day You will have made the room a fraction brighter, and dim You will be content to be home, wherever it is.

P Nidzgorski


P Nidzgorski (X818.com) is a web designer currently running the 3 minute massage concession stand at pski designs, ltd When he’s not dreaming in color, he spends most of his time pining for the Pulaski Skyway and sidestepping the Sledge Hammer of God in the damned indifference that is Los Angeles.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by P Nidzgorski and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

1967 Maybe

Before the bleacher benches,
before the fondness fleeted Before the country clubbed and the seersucker
race riots
Before the might won’t and the promise made,
before the potential fade, trouble took its time
and worry waited silently Before the cheap plastic basketball loneliness
crushed any hope of hope, there was a time It was going when I glimpsed it Mercy had only a second to spare while Robert
Hall painted plaid the valley fair No chance lasted and left me facing life, lying on
the stand.

Subscribe to our weekly Newsletter: