MickiMeyers

Short Fuse: N.B.'s Retreat

Rush hour. The Parkway's bumper to bumper
as the winter storm comes in, snow starting to stick
to the windshield where the wipers don't reach.
Marie's face is lit up red in the taillight's glow
as she reaches into her purse for a cigarette.
Damn weather, she mutters, cracking the window.

It seems the whole city's heading out to the mall
to stock up on canned goods, batteries, Instalogs, milk.
There's a fender-bender up ahead, the radio tells them,
a fact his wife feels necessary to repeat. He clenches
his teeth, wishing his first wife was sitting beside him instead.

The news is nothing but war, heavy losses at the front.
It doesn't look good for either side. He can feel the tires slipping
and realizes he should have filled the tank before they left.
Joséphine would have thought of that.

By the time they pull into the parking lot, the shelves
will be stripped bare, so they'll have to go home
empty-handed, the roads covered in ice.

After a second or two of static, the "1812 Overture"
crashes through the speakers like a startled deer.
Yes! Marie exclaims, shifting her weight forward in the seat.
At the first cannon's blast she claps imaginary cymbals
and stamps her feet. Boom, she says
as they pass the wreck—Honey, look, see.

Her husband just stares straight ahead
and whispers that he's beat.

Bio:

Micki Myers teaches poetry at the University of Pittsburgh, and runs her business, Micki Myers Design. She is the author of Trigger Finger, from Pearl Editions, and has received three Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has recently appeared in Critical Quarterly, Pearl, 5AM, Nerve Cowboy, and Gulf Stream. She plays way too much Scrabble on Facebook, and can be found at www.mickimyers.com.

2007

Patent # 1,773,079: Method of Preparing Food Products (August 12, 1930)

It’s barely 4 o’clock but already the stars are out
this far north, and Clarence Birdseye’s lying flat
on his back looking up at them, squinting, trying
to spot one that moves. There are no satellites
whirring and blinking their way around the earth,
not even a radio wave to tune in to, the sky crystal
clear, like ice. The air slaps his lungs on the way in,
goes out a cloud. Summer seems light years away,
but the taste of fresh-shucked peas lingers on
his tongue like a mirage, bitter and sweet. It’s so cold
and he’s so far from home he wants to cry. It’s so cold
that fish freeze solid the moment they’re pulled
from the sea on a line. Imagine, peas in the dead
of winter, a November cod in the heat of July.

And then it comes to him, just like that.

He imagines each dot of light a silver dollar,
22 million of them winking at him from 1929,
more money than you’ll have hot dinners
in your whole entire life.

Take My Wife, For Example. No, Really—Take My Wife:
Hastings, October 14, 1066

We were pretty confident, going in, us lads.

I mean, what can you expect of the French?
Lovers, not fighters, the French. You’re fine
as long as they don’t get within earshot of your women.
Then it’s all flirty-flirty, here’s a glass of wine
and a box of chocolates. Come back to my place
for a bit of ooh-la-la, mademoiselle, s’il vous plait.

We had the high ground, and Harold was ready
to give it his best shot, throwing up his arms
and leading us all in a round of
“Here We Go, Here We Go, Here We Go”
just like on a Saturday at a game of footie.

So there we are, ready for a bit of a rumble,
when all of a sudden, something whizzes past my ear
just like an arrow and goes thwack.

Fuck me! yells this fella behind me,
and sure enough, sticking out of his neck
is a bleedin’ arrow, I kid you not.
What are we, animals? The Church doesn’t allow
bows and arrows in battle, for God’s sake:
too much like hunting.

So there we are, poor Godfrey flailing around
trying to pull the thing from his neck,
us standing around holding our clubs
and spiked iron balls like idiots,
wondering who changed the rules.
Not very sporting, the French.

After a while, they ran out of arrows, though.
We had to laugh at that.
Nothing to fire them back with, you see.
Can’t very well throw them can you?

I suppose we got a bit cocky, a bit full of ourselves,
after that. There was a bit of a mockery made of
our noble opposition, to tell the truth. A cat-call or two.
Some of the men on the front lines did drop their pants
to show the archers the moon, I have to admit.

By late afternoon, we’d had enough,
it was getting a bit chilly, and Harold had
promised us all a pint afterwards,
so we said au revoir, Losers, and began to walk away.
I, for one, fancied a bit of fish and chips, I won’t lie.
It’s the sea air—it builds up your appetite, doesn’t it?

What they must have done
was come behind us
and picked up the arrows.

Makes sense, if you think about it.
Easy to see now, in hindsight.
There we were, dragging poor dead Godfrey
by the hair—and he’s a big bugger, let me tell you,
he’d eat anything that moved, that Godfrey—
so there wasn’t a hand free.
Didn’t think arrows were allowed,
didn’t have a plan for picking up arrows.

We all heard the wolf whistle,
but only Harold turned around.

I wonder if he saw it coming,
the Missus said later.

Sense of humor on that woman.

"Veiled" 2005, oil on canvas by Theresa Pfarr

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