Wake Up

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

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 

thirty percent off

You should go inside

You should see all the pretty girls

You should’ve seen this one, oh boy her-

No thanks,

I just came here for the view

but the percent

wept

sang

in his smile

and betrayed

the slang and meth

hanging in his mouth

the poor lighting

the off-key voice crack karaoke

the interrupted sentences.

Quarter to three am

unfamiliar sheets

biting

married men’s skin

dampened by the nightlight

the droopy eyes

hell’s sigh

the sunlight inching

through the curtains

counter-clockwise

pushed

through the streets

of dawn

neon shards

of billboards

promoting their lives

unnamed bodies

still warm

still moaning

by their side

an ache

an itch

in their thighs

they stain

the pavement

with their silent cries

Is this what it’s like

to be dead,

or are we alive?

hitches a ride

into their minds

they still have

pictures of their kids

in their wallets

along with a string

of unattached numbers

for the occasional hunger

oh, no

they were

thirty percent off

I would’ve never

sunbaked hearts

fall apart

a la carte

but oh,

it doesn’t matter

as long as it stays

in the dark.

© Margaux Emmanuel

It’s 12 am and teenagers are sitting down, cross-legged, in a fast-food’s parking lot, some loosely holding a crestfallen cigarette in their right hands, its embers lightly glowing in the darkness, some staring at the cars passing by. They’re playing some obscure artist’s b-sides on a beat down stereo that they all seem to be sitting around. “I’m going inside; so fucking cold out here. You guys want anything to eat? Daniel gave me a coupon for their sodas”, says a boy with piercing grey eyes as he rouses himself, long dyed-black hair peaking out from his over-sized sweatshirt’s hood. “I think we’re good”, replies a red-haired girl, almost mechanically, almost as if she is somehow not allowed to want anything, as she lies back and stares into the starless sky with an empty expression. Another girl in the group, chattering teeth and hugging her knees that she has covered with her large green knitted sweater, is aligning dominos on the smooth cement. “What are you doing?”, asks a boy, his veins visibly snaking under his pale skin and his eyes hidden behind strands of brown curls. “This…is us”, she answers while pushing the first domino and watching them fall, one by one onto one another until the very last one drops down and they are all lying there, inanimate, almost breathless. “The fuck are you rambling on about”, he sharply rejoins. “She’s saying that if it weren’t for Lawrence we wouldn’t be in this shithole”, suddenly says the red-haired girl, a little too loudly, as she sits up to face the other members of the group. “Shut your trap”, whispers the boy in a foggy breath as he nervously turns his head to make sure that Lawrence isn’t in sight. “Don’t you tell me that it’s not true, Anzu will tell you the same”, she continues but now in a lower voice and slightly turning herself towards Anzu, awaiting a response while bitterly putting out her cigarette against the asphalt. “Kat’s right…”, says Anzu under her breath with composure. The boy doesn’t say anything, perhaps because he knew that his friends were right but it hurt too much to acknowledge it. He moves the hair that was covering his eyes and places them behind his ear, revealing mellow cedar eyes that betray his cold demeanor. He peers at the dominos, almost frightened by them. Suddenly, he reaches towards the stereo and turns it off in the middle of “hear what I say and tell me if you still-”. Katherine and Anzu look at him, gaping. “Let’s go”, he says as he gets up and grabs the stereo. The girls remain where they are, puzzled. “Ernest, are you fucking out of your mind? We’re in the middle of nowhere and Lawrence has the car keys”, says Katherine with an anxious chuckle. Ernest begins to make his way across the parking lot, holding the stereo in one hand and putting his other hand into his hoodie’s pocket, ignoring Katherine’s indignant remark. “Ernest!”, screams Katherine as the washed-out boy’s figure progressively blends into the dark horizon. Anzu calmly lights a cigarette as Katherine arises and begins to desperately run after him. “What’s going on?”, says a voice from behind. Anzu turns around and sees Lawrence, insouciantly biting into a hamburger that he holds with his two hands, ketchup dripping onto them. “You really don’t understand, do you?”, she mutters into her green sweater as she watches Katherine and Anzu from afar. “Anzu, what are they-“ “Lawrence, it’s freezing, we’re far from home and we haven’t slept in days, this had to happen at some point.” “You can’t possibly think that this is all my fault!” “That’s not what I said.” “But you seem to think so.” Anzu doesn’t dare to look at Lawrence, maybe because the way that he would look at her would bring back more painful memories. She sniffles. “Are you crying?” “No, I’m just fucking cold”, she says as she rubs her sleeve against her teary eyes, gets up, and leaves Lawrence alone in the icy parking lot. He looks at the dominos laying on the floor and then, almost as a reflex, bends down and grabs them. As he turns the hard rectangles in his hands, he thinks  to himself that nothing can be done.

dominos | © Margaux Emmanuel 

He stares at the ceiling, a scratched melody bleeding through the thin wall. To his right, the wall was unadorned, in an almost naked, dehumanized manner. A lonely flower was limply standing in a vase, giving him big gloomy eyes, sitting on a small table. The porridge sticks to the spoon that he brings to his mouth. “Mr. Rodler, I will come back to give you your medication in half an hour” The white sheets are stiff against his goosebumped legs, he runs his hand on them, trying to decrease them, pressing his palms against his thighs’ skin. Weekend in a whirlwind weekend in a whirlwind weekend in a whirlwind “Weekend in a whirlwind!” “Mr. Rodler, I beg your pardon?” He bites his lip as the woman takes a last glance at him as she leaves the room. He rubs the back of his left hand against his lips, smudging the porridge bordering his lips onto his hand. He takes, or rather he grips, the spoon and circles it around the ridge of the empty bowl, letting the utensil schizophrenically scratch and screech against the bowl’s metal. He finally takes the bowl, rises it with both hands to his eyes’ level, and looks at his reflection. “Weekend in a whirlwind”. The nurse enters the room once again with a glass of water in her hand and a small tray in the other. “Can he play something else? I don’t enjoy ragtime.” “Mr. Rodler, what are you talking about? No music is playing.” He nervously turns to the left wall as puts his hands onto his ears. The white nurse stares at him with a composed incomprehension. “Why don’t you play some chess? Mr. Saito would, I bet, love to play against you.” “I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking.” “But, Mr. Rodler, it’s just a game.” He vigorously shakes his head as he nervously tugs on the sheets that were tightly held back by the sides of the mattress. “Don’t look at me that way, I beg you.” “Mr. Rodler, do I need to bring you to the upstairs ward?” He stays silent because he knows very well what goes on in “the upstairs ward”. He looks at the nurse and hisses: “Weekend in a whirlwind”.

weekend in a whirlwind | © 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