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The Four Worst Paint Names We Came Across at Home Depot Upon Failing to Pick a New Color for
the Empty Spare Room
R.S. Powers
Pompeii Ruins (dark gray)
A week prior, my fiancée miscarried at four months. We were at the county
library for a poetry reading. An adjunct colleague of my fiancée told the
small gathering that her new chapbook concerned failing to learn to cook
Cajun food along with what she characterized as "small beer" coitus. During
a villanelle somewhat indirectly about anal sex, I thought my fiancée,
wearing a loose dark dress, had wet herself. She stood and we saw the puddle
of bright blood on her orange folding chair. We were shuffling to my car
when my fiancée told me: Don't bother speeding.
NYPD (blue gray)
When the young male doctor explained what a D&C would entail, my fiancée
mock-nonchalantly waved away his entire presence: Oh honey, I've been
through much more stressful things than this. She wanted us to
laugh with her at least a little, so we did. Walking the fluorescent
hallways to the waiting area, I found myself thinking: Sixteen weeks. Size
of an avocado. A few weeks from learning the sex. We'd been joking about a
gender reveal that would make the news. A few days prior, we were up before
dawn googling how to make massive rainbow-colored explosions.
Climate Change (off-white green tint)
The day after the hospital—on a warm and windy December afternoon—we went
walking along the warping paved path through the towering dying wood. We
found a sprawling playground with an anarchy of squealing children
navigating aging metal equipment, their dozens of sunlit shadows racing on
the red mulch. Again, I told her to cancel her next week of classes. We'd
drive to the beach, hit the casinos. We'd hike the mountains, wear nothing
but sneakers. We'd break into the abandoned IRS building, take photos of the
sunset through the broken walls. It's okay to not feel anything, my fiancée
had to tell me. We'll never ever know what we've lost.
Baby's Breath (off-white gray tint)
After we learned, I became lost in a joy that defies language. I rushed to
tell our surviving parents and friends, spent days composing our social
media post. After we emptied the spare room and tore up the carpet, the
floorboards daily shone. The room's up on the second floor, two big paneless
windows looking out onto cracked concrete. That room is where my fiancée
writes all her poetry. What else can be said?
.
R.S. Powers has work in or coming from The Boiler, X-R-A-Y, Juked, Grist and others.
Read RSP's postcard.
W i g l e a f
05-09-23
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