Gravity Issue 24 - Malinda McCall

Malinda McCall

Oleo Hour

My cheek felt cool against the pane
so I gave up getting up
(the days burn short in winter)
The children are playing in the street again
Shouting over the sounds of the roadway
The cars hum by like harmonicas
Next door there seems to be a battle
concerning the breakfast:
     "I told you butter wouldn't suit
     the works," sighs the 'Hatter.
     "It was the very best butter,"
     the March Hare meekly replies.
You, my Dormouse, sleep on.
I tuck into a sheet;
too cold to sleep, too warm to move
Wheels on tricycles creak like garden gates
as I count cracks in the wall
I hear them play "Red Rover"
as the sun slashes across my eyes
You and the cat are nested together like spoons:
Capital I, lowercase i and I
The fight next door rages:
          "Is this a tonguemark on the butter?!"
          (Courtesy of That. Damned. Cat.)
          The 'Hatter waxes eloquent.
             "You've spoilt my nice new rattle,"
             cries a Tweedledum outside
             Tiny feet pound the ground,
             sprinkle over the sidewalks
             Gravel skitters and scrunches
      It's margarine really, the 'Hatter decides,
      that will do the trick nicely.
          The March Hare announces the advent
          of breakfast
             tea cups clank
          It's cherry or 'berry turnovers with
          or without
          butter.
I slide my chilled feet against yours
My lips feel cool
against the white of the sheets, jumbled in the sun.
I find you've been playing 'possum
and I ask you
(not expecting a reply)
Had you ever, at grandmother's,
napped on sheets dried on a line in the sun
(tossed by a breeze)?
Those children are shrieking,
bicycle bells jingle
          "Off with her head!"
          a small Queen of Hearts demands.
Footsteps ebb away, shouts echo,
basketballs bounce...
The cat rolls, stretches, purrs
I punch the pillow
and put my head near yours
and try to concentrate:
...on the children skipping through the leaves
...the cat's dronings
...the rumble of trucks on the highway
...the hum of the clock
...your heart pattatting...
I tell you that you "look charming" asleep
You say, turning over and smiling
as I pull your hair:
           "Don't butter me up, Alice."

Malinda McCall was born somewhere other than Savannah, Georgia, but no one cares where because Savannah is far more interesting: being raised there shaped her version of reality in, shall we say, a unique manner. She learned you people's strange customs well enough to aquire a BA in Art, a BA in English and a Tardis-like closet full of strange footgear but not well enough to figure out politics, rudeness, Precious Moments figurines, the concept of linear time or yuppies. She reads voraciously, thinks television is glorified furniture (except on Sunday nights, when she watches The X-Files semi-religiously), is fond of long bubbly soaks in the tub, and is the least likely ordained minister you'll ever meet.