Katharine Coggeshall is a technical writer-editor living in the mountains of New Mexico. She dabbles in everything from writing newspaper columns to R&D 100 applications to poetry. There is no adventure she is unwilling to try.
Inferiority Complex
I think it’s a nonrestrictive clause, I say, defending my twinning commas like a mother defends her children who are far too old to be dressed alike but desperate to receive attention, even if it’s negative attention, like a soggy potato chip or some other disingenuous psychobabble spouted by pediatricians with no kids. DINKS, they’re called—dual income no kids—living a life of caviar and feasting on their judgements, overstuffed to the point of no longer seeing their feet or seeing the path my feet have tread. Perhaps I have said too much with my commas, laying my hand on the table and revealing no more than a pair of twos. My cards slip from my clammy hands just as my colleagues all murmur their agreement, ending my lifetime inferiority complex.
First Date
“On occasion” is my go-to,
my red lipstick in my bag,
my speed-dial for all topics,
my translation for the perfunctory.
I spritz this two-word statement,
comb it through my hair,
before donning the obligatory
LBD and kitten heels.
You get used to telling half-truths,
to flossing out the rest
and finding all the depth
still plaqued upon your teeth.
But the words that I choke back
would only choke him more
as he suffocates from plunging
to levels down so deep.
I am sparing lives
every Friday, half past nine
with my reticent retort—
“on occasion”—
on my tongue.
Something Good
I need something good to happen today. I’d pay 50 cents for a miracle. Or use those silver circles to replace the blue-black ones beneath my eyes. Though the silver would drip down my throat and choke me like my silver spoon always does, eroding my molars with the acid, creating holes in my already cracked self-image. It’s a high price to pay, but we’re talking about a miracle after all.
There’s something in the sky that whispers no miracles are to be had today, by me or any other “worshiper-when-convenient” K-mart patron of God who only acknowledges His existence in dire times (or when wrapped around a toilet bowl). The Norse and Greeks harnessed the power of statistics when weighing their potential for miracles; my scale is far more lopsided and inclined to deny me donuts…and miracles.
So I’ll keep my 50 cents and try my luck at the lottery instead.
Farewell to Confidence
On a full moon fortnight,
wicked wind wills
up my spine, through my hair,
around my ear, and to my mind
where it spreads like cyanide
through the folded cornfield maze,
shadow cast upon the screen
camera-lensed against my eye
and focal-pointed straight at me.
I’m a precision shot—
arrows fly, daggers rain.
None survive the wicked wind.
From outside, a peaceful scene
while cornfields die in hurricanes.
Farewell, my confidence.
Until we meet again.