Transfiguration of a Woman

I wake to the argument of car horns that aren’t there, the eternal bleeding of snaps and their echoes come from my ears, the soprano voice of God, if he is a she, is in the air: the alarm clock has spoken.

I crawl on my elbows to the bottle that carries peace for my brain that is broken, the S in the beginning of its name means sorry because I flip it around in the palm of my hand like a coin, praying for heads, but once in my mouth…it is definitely an ass.

Sometimes I get onto the floor, hands first, from the bed, walk to the clock, tell it to snooze, ring again without me. Other times, I incorporate the sound into nightmares, dreams, just so we can get along until my husband jumps up, an angry old woman, turning it off.

I drive in the dark, passing unlit construction signs and unlit cars that have the audacity to fit between me and the light ahead. 55 on a 40 now, the 137 bus must stop in front of me.

I listen to the toxic instruments that my MP3 plays. I sing the grace and mercy of the Lord from Lacey Sturm’s words with the drunk seduction of Halsey’s melisma. They say “We understand- come and play the choking game because we have everything you need to say”.

I dance barefoot in the kitchen that is never swept, broken lollipops bits, chicken juice stains, and charcoal ends from our homemade quesadillas stick to the base. Did you know I give my left foot a pulse that understands all things? This is the same kitchen that cannot contain my man, my baby, myself, all this and a pound of ground beef and grain and filthy dishes.

I read from starchy worn paper bound with leather: I read from the lights on my technology screen tales told too much by the broken, the healed. Psychotic-stories older, dustier than the bible itself.

I write on paper, plastic, cotton and wool: I write on the bathroom stall walls if I have the itch, convinced my words are new, bigger than the great lakes combined in flashes of blues, greater than the heart of a million soldiers marching the stormy road.

I laugh at my husband’s jokes, grab my tummy, smile raw, smile ugly just so he will do the same, our lips touch, wet, soft, all at once until we find ourselves fallen, affixed, rooted.

But I listen to them- husband, mother, aunt, any stranger whenever they tell me I look awful or when I am not really winning against said disease(s), disorder(s), defect(s).

Sometimes, alone, my eyes are stuck on the same odd black spec in the white stucco walls, my fingers clasped over my heart that beats too hard, too fast, my toes curled to tell the demons they do possess powers; my mind raging–like the flames of Alpha Lyrae: proof that she is I am.

~Ahja Fox

Ahja Fox won the 2016/2017 Writers Studio Scholarship for Creative Writing. She is currently the president of ACC’s Writers Studio Club. She will have her first publication in the upcoming, Progenitor, Art & Literary Journal. Her goals are to publish in various writing sources, finish producing at least one book draft, and to open a dance studio that caters to children and the disabled. Ahja will receive her AA degree with a Creative Writing Emphasis this Spring. She has plans to pursue her writing career with Adams State University.