At the Drive-In Volcano, and: Candy Necklace, and: The Traveling Lizard

Abstract

At the Drive-In Volcano, and: Candy Necklace, and: The Traveling Lizard Aimee Nezhukumatathil (bio) At the Drive-In Volcano St. Lucia I am a very different wife.Sulfur & ash fill my noseuntil both nostrils are beige,my hands hot & webbedwith steam. My husband urgesme closer to the centerof the steaming calderafor a picture until I am upagainst the rail. Our guidetells us of a rasta manwho once fell in-& survived. His entire bodyturned smooth as a candle.Come with me, Husband.Put down your backpack,your camera-let usbe remarried in fire.One by one the stars go out.Even in this darkness,there is so much light. [End Page 144] Candy Necklace Each piece of chalky wafer breaksmy heart. I adore these pastel chips strung on the thinnest of elastics. I holdthem in my mouth. I drool little rings down my lips and when I tryto talk and giggle there is a catch in the throat-a catch when the elasticsnaps and the sizzle of candy spills on tile like a drop of orange sauce on a hot grill.Winter now and drunk flies knock against my window for just one more drinkof light, or to sink into fruit juice left in a glass overnight. I chew off all the tiny pinkrings, then the blues, the yellows, and leave all the white: a sad excuse for pearlsat this age. We have sticky necks sticky hands and when I slide the candy-an abacus around my neck-I count the times you thought of me today-or was ithow many times I thought of you? I place the silly truck-stop rings you offered meunder my tongue. My neck is still sticky, still collects-but the candy necklaceI wear tonight is all the rings you gave [End Page 145] my phone and I didn't answer. NowI can afford even peacock pearls clasped in a wild gold latch but I have no moneyfor his steps his boot his taste. The Traveling Lizard The honeymoon is overand we find a dead lizardin our luggage. An anole, actually-its neckflesh swollen and dry, like a single papery bougainvillea flower pinned to its tiny neck. Anoles creeped the walls of our island bungalow but all seemed so quick, so skittish.Even the slightest movementof mosquito netting sent themscurrying behind a picture frame. So how to explain its presence here in western New York, home of the chicken wing, the crazed football fans? Perhaps it too wanted to travel far, escape rainy seasonand the dumb huzz of mosquito, wantedto know what it was like to perch on a singledry berry and snatch a crunchy fly. [End Page 146] Aimee Nezhukumatathil Aimee Nezhukumatathil is the author of At the Drive-In Volcano and Miracle Fruit, both from Tupelo Press. She is a professor of English at the State University of New York-Fredonia. Copyright © 2007 University of Nebraska Press