Ton Reflet Dans Les Douces Vagues Scintille, Teint Par La Couleur De Lhorizon Froiss.Une Lettre Violace

Ton reflet dans les douces vagues scintille, teinté par la couleur de l’horizon froissé. Une lettre violacée se repose sur le ventre bombé, montant, descendant, de l’océan somnolant. Tu la suis des yeux, te demandant quand est-ce l’océan l’avalera, quand est-ce les mots fondront dans la marée. Tu te dis que peut-être la douleur partira elle aussi. Tu regardes de loin la mer tourmentée, les vagues se cassant sur l’horizon, un mirage lointain, et tu tiens une photo, couverte par la peinture jaune du temps, dans ta main droite. Le vent enlace ses bras frais autour de toi. Tu as voulu garder tes chaussures même si l’eau vient jusqu’à tes genoux, ton pantalon colle à tes mollets. Tu ne sens plus rien ; tes lunettes, dont les branches te serrent un peu trop aujourd’hui, retiennent tes larmes. Tu jettes un coup d’œil vers la photo ; il est là, assis, fumant une cigarette entouré par des cyprès inclinés. Il finit un vers d’occasion qu’il t’offrira plus tard. « Je trouve que c’est dommage qu’ils aient déterré l’abricotier quand ils ont construit la résidence, il te dit. - Mais sans la résidence, tu n’aurais jamais rencontré Agathe  - Ah, mais le bonheur ne serait pas le bonheur s’il n’était pas accompagné d’une pointe de tristesse. » Il tenait beaucoup à ses aphorismes. L’odeur marin légèrement salée, légèrement amer, te réveille. Tout à coup, tu te laisses tomber en arrière dans l’eau et la photographie s’échappe de tes mains. Les étoiles commencent à s’allumer; il était grand temps.

l’ombre mouillée d’un voyageur, une impression | © Margaux Emmanuel

punch-drunk

There were indistinct screams and catcalls coming from every angle of the dark abyss. They echoed up to her ears, but all she could hear was the thudding of her own thundering heart. The lights around her were bright, blinding. She felt the impression of an arm on her shoulder, water gushing down her throat, drops falling onto her bare stomach, mixed with the sweat.

“Come on, you gotta go the distance...”

“Tyler, she’s punch-drunk.”

Punch-drunk. “Punch-drunk”, she said, the words hazily forming on her lips.

“That upper-cut busted her ribs, the girl can’t even walk straight, let alone land one. She’s either gonna get knocked out or the judge’s gonna call it a technical.”

Knocked out clean.

A warm breeze blowing onto her face. Apartment buildings were towering around them, the sun red in the glass windows.

“So you see, he was all like punch-drunk and then he like threw a jab and then this uppercut that perfectly landed on his jaw. Like this look. And then BOOM he got knocked-out clean, it was the most beautiful thing I ever seen I tell ya.”, he said as he jumped down from the table he was standing on top of.  

“One day, I’ll teach ya how to box ya know.”

“Me? A boxer? Don’t be silly.”

She suddenly felt a sharp, twisting pain in her ribs.

A bell rings.

“Round six!”

“Come on, you gotta get back in there. Remember, she’s a swarmer so try to block her right…”

Her mother’s crying.

“He should have never practiced that sport. Your father always said that it’d end badly”.

Her face met the blood-covered floor.

“One! Two! Three! …”

“It’s over Tyler. For fuck’s sake!”

“Four! Five!”

“Sawyer...”, she said, tears lining her eyes.

“Six! Sev-“

She got up and rose both of her gloves.

© Margaux Emmanuel 

light-headed

I know a place

where the nights are hidden under a veil of tobacco

I know a place 

where lovers wait for the rain to cease, sheltered by a stranger’s open garage

holding stolen beers and each other’s hands 

I know a place

where boys with messy hair sit on the windowsill reading Cocteau 

I know a place

where people fall in love over a cigarette and a line of Tennyson 

It’s a place 

where life isn’t so bad 

© Margaux Emmanuel 

She attentively watched the two star-crossed smoke rings being teared apart, meeting the window, gnawing at the glass skin as she let an uneasy silence buzz in her ears.

“Kid, we need to talk”, he finally said, resting his hand on her knee.

Come to think of it, it wasn’t silent; there was a record turning a couple of feet behind her.

“I need a God to pray to, maybe someone like you”, it sang in a jazzy elevator melody. And the fan was blowing cool air into her hair, making a strand of dirty blonde curls uncomfortably press against her left eyelid.

She looked up at him with knitted brows, making the scar above her eyebrow slightly bulge. He moved his hand away from her knee, got up, and took another long, meditative, inhale from his cigarette as he passed his hand through his sticky brown hair that greasily fell onto his shoulders.

“You still have the Volvo”, she said in an almost inaudible small voice.

He turned his back towards her and pressed his hands up onto the window sill, bending his brown-suit body in two, making his purple striped tie loosely flail.

“You seriously think that the P1800 can get us through this? What did they teach you down in the South?”

Not much, she thought. She couldn’t see his face but she could see the gray smoke bubbling around his head.

“You see over there?”, he said standing upright, one hand clenched to his right suspender spanning across his chest, the other pointed towards a distant building.

She tilted her head towards the left.

“That’s the Garter Movie Theater”.

“Is it really that difficult to be called ‘sir’?”, he retorted, turning his body towards her and bringing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to be able to meet her eyes.

He has green eyes, she noted.

“That’s the Garter Movie Theater, sir”, she said, correcting herself, too weak to fight back like she would have a few days back. 

“That’s right. We should go tonight”, he responded, in a testing manner, now resting his back against the window, looking straight into her eyes, his right leg rigidly laying on his left leg.

She felt an alarming tension in her chest. He couldn’t possibly be serious, she told herself.

“Sir, I don’t know if that’s a good ide-“

“Why, it would be a… magnificent idea”, he said in a decrescendo whisper enlacing his arms around her, the strong smell of smoke filling her nostrils.

“Just you and I…”, he hissed into her ear.

He broke off with a malevolent laugh and made his way towards the door. She rubbed her nose against her sweatshirt, hoping that the acrid smell would wear off.  

He opened the door and gestured towards the green-carpeted hallway.

“After you”, he said with a vicious smile.

The devil’s playground, that’s what his mind is, she thought.

She stepped outside the room, a tingle of fear trickling down her spine.

© Margaux Emmanuel

wake up

you write

        arbitrary letters

                           on the lampshade dust

a game

        of mental scrabble,

modernity’s

           aphasia

the light turns on

v

u

  l

   n

     e

       r

        a

          b

            l

              e

you are in bed

writing

          what you think,

letting your skin

                  nervously flirt

                                      with unfamiliar sheets,

letting your pen 

                      nervously flirt

                                       with innocent paper,

meeting

            your pale lover’s

                                weak eyes

                                            for the first time:

we all need

           to meet

                   ourselves.

© Margaux Emmanuel

“What do they call you?” He let the crickets answer for him, continuing to stare into the bonfire crackling in front of them, his arms extended perpendicularly against his thighs, palms pressing against the burnt grass, and puffing out his grimy bare chest. His cornflower eyes, where orange flames flickered in the night, were framed by his short brown hair and a finely chiseled nose. His thin lips rarely moved and if they did, they only trembled. Suddenly, he turned to his side, his skin rustling against the rigid grass, and grabbed a light green soda can out of a wooden crate. He handed it to her, letting his eyes meet hers for the first time. “Thank you”, she whispered with a small smile. She had been eyeing the sodas for the entire time, longing for the sweet liquid to trickle down her throat cracked with thirst. She lifted the soda tab and let it hiss. As she passed the can to her right hand, she noticed that red ink was smeared on her left hand. She looked at the side of the can and noticed the familiar red stamp. “So you were in the hangar?” He raised his glance back towards her and let his head settle at her level before giving a small nod. “You could’ve died”, she said. His gaze was once again lost in the fire. As she lifted her chin towards the dark sky to let the prickly drink pour into her throat in one longing gulp, she heard, in a velvet voice splintered with sadness: “And many of us did”. Her neck went erect in surprise, leaving some clumsy soda trickling down her chin. She gaped at him, astonished. Pushing against the ground with fatigue, he got up with a slight stagger. “We should get going, the sun will be up in a couple of hours”, he said, his eyes looking towards the east. “Ye-yes, you’re right”, she answered, her drowsy mind awakened by all the questions she wanted to ask him. His skinny arms lifted the two crates of provisions, making him wince in pain. “Do you need help with that?” He replied with a scowl, making her blush. “Let us go” They left the flames weaken. The morning sun would shine onto the ashes of the night that had reigned beforehand, and they would be gone.

of war and silence | © Margaux Emmanuel