SOMETIMES IT SNOWS IN APRIL

Still haven’t wiped away your last tear, I see.

You see right, Tracy, The moon is as full and cherry-red as my heart once more, and here I am, rolling out paisley tears for another friend, like all I do is cry for friends.

You only see me when you hear the door slam. They don’t always leave me, my friends, you know. But they have to sometimes.

Shut up already, damn, Tracy sneers. Making out you feel as much pain for this one as you did for the last love you lost. Snivelling like he was your only friend.

And I think maybe you’re right Tracy. I can’t remember the last time I held his hand in the rain. But the thought of it did keep me warm inside. Like the man said. It isn’t love until it’s past.

Wipe away your foolish tears. He’s a whole lot better off than the fools he left here, says Tracy. I know he’s looking at me.

You don’t need to remind me good things never last, Tracy. That you always cry for love, never for pain.

But what is always without sometimes, Tracy? Haven’t you seen how the sun can be buried, even when it’s his time to shine?

Sometimes I feel. Sometimes I don’t.

Sometimes I wish it never snowed at all.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Prince/ Wendy Melvoin/ Lisa Coleman

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SUEDEHEAD

Max woke from a night of uneasy dreams to find his head had metamorphosed into a giant root vegetable.

He’d really gone and done it this time.

‘Why do you comb hair?’ He thought he heard himself ask.

The face in the mirror would look bemused, if it weren’t a turnip.

He couldn’t think who might know, so he rang himself. Check the voice inside his head was still him. It was not.

Max started to spin, the chord of the telephone tying him up in silly knots.

‘You’re making this lard for me,’ complained the voice inside the rutabaga.

‘Sorry,’ Max tore himself away from the mirror and sneaked into his room. A cow slept noisily in the corner, cartons and cartons of milk and milk products all around her. Nothing to see here but dairy.

He sat down and began to draw. A handsome man, happy, looking fresh and ever so slick, not a trace of sickness. Next to the picture Max drew an arrow and scrawled: ‘Me. In my dream!’

‘Dear Me,’ he wrote, forcing a cough into a laugh. ‘Just one letter away from the truth.’

It was a good lie.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Steven Morrissey/Stephen Street