I'M THE FUTURE EX . . .

photo and scarecrow by ralph murre

By Shoshauna Shy ---

I’M THE FUTURE EX

BILL MEETS IN

SARATOGA SPRINGS

 

at a Citgo station.

I am still married

and neither of us suspects

I will become my husband’s ex,

then Bill’s live-in girlfriend.

Next I’m his almost-fiancee

 

till drunken hijinks

with his best friend

gets me pregnant.

As things go, I miscarry;

Bill forgives me; we get

back together; we break up.

This goes on for years

 

while he travels to Key West

and dates someone else’s wife.

Meanwhile, I give birth

to a couple of his kids;

we get a license;

we have a wedding,

but before I know it

all hell breaks loose

and I’m his ex, Bill’s very own ex.

I figured I was olly olly in free

but as Bill says, guy reaches 40,

he’s bound to have an ex;

maybe even two.

This makes for a handy excuse

when my successor, a pretty

wanna-be-Mrs named Alyssa

prepares to present her case.

Bill can shake his head

 

and damn if that’s not all it takes

for her to know she should get real

or get gone - It won’t get

any better than this.

~ first published in stoneboat

I MOVE MY TEENAGE SON . . .

artwork: ralph murre

I MOVE MY TEENAGE SON’S MATTRESS

INTO A U-HAUL

~ by Shoshauna Shy

If I happen to remember Roy

- scruffy vet whom I met

on the New Mexican desert -

what I remember is the night my father

dropped by my first apartment

without warning.

Recent arrivals to that dusty two-horse town,

my father left the sweat of a big-city career,

and I left childhood.

He saw Roy’s motorcycle propped

against the aspen, so why he rang

the doorbell anyway meant he stood

in the dark long enough to regret it

while I buttoned, zipped, straightened,

smoothened, wrestled open the door

and found him, hands clasped behind

his back with some excuse about money.

I could tell, by the light from the stairway,

that even though his shoulders said

Please forgive me, there was no apology

for wanting to stay in my life.

That’s all I remember about Roy.

If Roy happens to think of me,

he remembers something else,

I’m sure.

~ previously published in

The Orange Room Review

2 O'CLOCK . . .

artwork: ralph murre

2 O’CLOCK

EUREKA JOE’S

by Shoshauna Shy

His cousin arranged this                                                                  

so he agreed to show up

to find that the 30+ woman

seated beside the ficus plant

has a head of amber curls

which gives her face a spritely

flourish, and he likes how

her sweater sleeves are pushed

to the elbows signifying

a take-charge demeanor.

The woman sees his thick crop

of sun-streaked hair and dark

lashes, but would trade either

for another eight inches in height. 

Even six.

Still, his jacket with the loosened

hip buckles and stylish cuffs

makes up for it.

He figures he could excuse

the lack of cleavage if she listens

to Duke Ellington or drives

a newer car.

And after she orders a second

almond steamer, he bets it

could become endearing

the way she pronounces the “t”

in “often.”

She gives him the benefit

of the doubt that he doesn’t

always tap table tops or rock

a knee (he is simply nervous

as is she), and thinks it charming

the way he tests his latte

with his tongue.

He surmises he could adapt

to the smell of strawberry

shower gel if she enjoys

spending hours in a kitchen.

She hopes his broad palms

indicate an affinity for shovels

and bandsaws, though an aptitude

for engines would be equally

advantageous.

She wishes he had left his ex-wife

instead of the other way around

for the name Krissy  has cropped up

more than is pleasing,

and she estimates that 40% of his tone

is regret and 60% relief,

but it’s rather tricky to determine.

She is not convinced she wants

a dinner date to follow

and he has no idea that the only way

a dinner date will follow

is if he harnesses his impulse

to suggest it, then doesn’t contact her

again till Thursday.

When their mugs are near-empty,

the badminton birdie exhausted

between them, and she has given

him a shy little wave outside

before hopping onto a bicycle,

he decides that if it turns out

she is partial to Star Trek reruns

and never votes Republican,

he could forgive

the thick ankles.

~ previously published by Milk Sugar Literary Journal

THE SURVIVOR

                       THE SURVIVOR

by Shoshauna Shy

It was a living nightmare

from which Olivia could not awake:

tangled howls in a mash of bed

sheets, condolences that arrived

on tea trays in the mornings, the pat

of hands her forehead

could not tolerate.

However long this carried on

she was helpless to determine –

when suddenly she packed her bags

and from the house she bolted,

cashed the insurance checks then drove

to the Midway Airport and booked

eleven successive flights criss-crossing

the Atlantic.  She caught a non-stop

to New York and figured if the engine

didn’t fail over the Baltic Sea, then maybe

a wheel would come loose on the red-eye

to Nicaragua or a fuel tank explode upon

Moroccan tarmac.

She didn’t care how it happened;

she just knew the odds increased

the longer she stayed airborne.

Two months had already managed to pass

since the crash that took her Willis, her Macy

and her Nathan.  She couldn’t let days keep

flooding by or she would never catch them.

Sometimes it took both pilots

to get Olivia off the plane.

~ first published in Milk Sugar Literary Journal

HOME PREGNANCY TEST

artwork: ralph murre

HOME PREGNANCY TEST

by Shoshauna Shy

Plastic tube far stronger

than bone, and so won’t shatter.

Not even after 300+ acts

of intercourse, two intra-uterine

inseminations, a hysteroscopy,

a year of yoga with visualizations,

four spa get-aways, five baby showers,

one younger sister expecting twins,

marital severance last night

threatened, now this good swing

of a hammer.

~ first published in Milk Sugar Literary Journal

THE JOB

THE JOB

by Shoshauna Shy

So that coworkers would not joke

that Val was a total loser,

she took vacation every year

the way they were supposed to

even though she preferred to stay

booking reservations

for the exclusive historic lodge

in the Sangre de Cristo mountains

with its children riding horseback,

waitstaff performing cabaret,

plates boasting crepe suzettes.

The pine-shrouded stone chateau

was a primo destination

for the international jet set

who lavished appreciation

when she saved them a favorite suite

a season in advance.

Since Valerie lived two towns away

in a studio apartment

disowned by her parents

soon as she turned 18,

holiday dinners were at the lodge

amongst the owners’ children –

Christmas, New Years, Easter Day

each savored by her Nikon.

When she did manage to vamoose

one week every August,

she checked email and Facebook posts

in every internet café.

In Sacramento she found out

her boss dumped his latest mistress;

in New Orleans the bellhop

got fired for cocaine.

A maid’s diamond find in the whirlpool

was the highlight of Ann Arbor,

and the gardener’s proposal to the chef

her memory of L.A.

The cab ride home from the airport

was the best part of the journey,

and by dawn Val was in the dining hall

with Cook Cody’s basted eggs.

If it weren’t for the blackened postmarks

on the cards sent to the office,

nobody would believe that “Velcro”

had actually gone away.

~ first published in MO: Writings from the River (Montana State University in Great Falls)

YOURS TRULY

Yours Truly
by Shoshauna Shy

One glance at your smile
and I pity every woman
who has swayed in the circle
of your arms; every tank-topped
schoolgirl who met your banter
in biology lab, then your lips
behind the boathouse; every
drama club lead, soccer star,
National Merit Finalist for whom
you built a bonfire or escorted
to the vineyard; all the college
co-eds in the sailing club
and on your dormitory floor
who held you on a motorcycle,
docked your boat, met Mom
& Dad, fed your Labrador.
I pity every pony-tailed
green-eyed filly whose breath
was sweet as lilacs; every San
Diego blonde in tennis whites
you swept to your chest;
any Nova Scotia import whose
jeans you unzipped at apple
harvests; your seasons a
symphony of ‘say when,’
‘I will’ and ‘always,’ of ‘yes’ and ‘now’
and ‘let me’s,’ no lull in tilting grins,
rippled laughter, cinnamon
whispers; the carpet always rolled
out red; the ship continually
arriving; the whole world wishing,
willing, ready to be yours.

~ first published in The Baltimore Review