Monday Never Comes – Prose Poem by Gabriela Marie Milton

Prose Poem by Gabriela Marie Milton

With stars in her eyes, the hour of the heart coils around my finger, iridescent scale after iridescent scale like the skin of a green Anaconda. I love you beyond the world of feelings, beyond the minutes of sands, beyond the unintelligible murmurs of night processions.

I can feel your fervor, your fingers unbraiding my hair, the aroma of chocolate kisses, the unforgettable texture of quinces – as you used to say the texture of carne de membrilllo – bitterness sweetened with honey.

The stairs toward the attic squeak under our steps, a few seconds and we are there, fresh lips, bodies glowing under the moonlight. Coming from nowhere an old song invades our skin. The ghosts of the Crescent Park Looff Carousel go mad: “And I’ll dance with you in Vienna.”

The next night, back in the attic, you shirtless, quoting Flaubert: To be stupid, selfish, and have good health are three requirements for happiness, though if stupidity is lacking, all is lost. I laugh. Forget about. I sharpen my nails on your back. I disappear in your arms like powdered sugar in the air.

Monday. Sun in your hair, eyes burning with desire, I see you running toward me, crossing the street a moment too soon, perhaps too late. The world flip-flops like a fish in a net. Dark.

No, it’s not Monday. Monday never comes. It’s Sunday. I am the forever Sunday. You smile. Can you hear the song my love? “And I’ll dance with you in Vienna.”

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Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
Award Winning Author
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020

Lethargic trees, nights dripping verses in our bed, Baudelaire’s ennui silhouetted against my soul. A young autumn, breasts stuck to the moon, cloudy eyes caught between sunrise and sunset.

There are too many eyes in this place: mine, yours, those of the portraits and the photographs on the walls, why do we have so many portraits and photographs?

Facing the armoire, left arm under your head, you sleep. Black dahlias invade the bedroom. I listen to the sound of nothingness.

I sit in front of the computer. On the screen, Sebastian’s letter.

Anastasia, I have no idea why Jacques fell in love with you. Your mild manners, your lipstick always in the right place, banal essences of Coco Channel on your clothes. Why do you dress in black all the time? Oh, wait, I know, Baudelaire, À une passante,

La rue assourdissante autour de moi hurlait.
Longue, mince, en grand deuil, douleur majestueuse,
Une femme passa, d’une main fastueuse
Soulevant, balançant le feston et l’ourlet

That’s the way you got Jacques. Soft black fabrics, mixtures of innocence and mysteries, the majestic air of an untouchable nun burning with desires.

I try fitting in one of your dresses. Why do you pick taffeta all the time? It’s so yesterday.

I look down. Ravishing view from your balcony. The moon bathes in the water, nightingales sing, the air is soft like the touch of a virgin… Beauty and then forever night… How I long for the forever night… the black of your dresses…

I am not in our bedroom anymore. I hang onto the balustrade of my condo’s balcony. Void. Impulses of self-destruction. I taste their ashes. A mannequin floats in the air. I am scared…

Jacques’ arms wrap around my shoulders.

–Anastasia what are you doing in front of the computer? It’s 3am. Back to bed.

–Sebastian…. Sebastian’s letter on the screen…. Read it.

–What letter, love? There is no letter on the screen. There’s a website that says, “Travel to Corsica.”

*draft

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020.

…

Head of a Woman’ by Jean Jacques Henner, Public Domain

Flash Fiction by Gabriela Marie Milton

My name is Gabriela. Papa used to call me Marie.

One night the moon stretched in our bed, its lips sultry, its breasts soft like two humongous cotton candies bought by the Holyoke Merry-Go-Round Carousel. That night your cascading laughter made all naked desires hide under the bed. I tried to drag them out. I couldn’t.

Later, head on your shoulder I looked at the stars through the broken ceiling, my eyes plagued by an inexorable yearning to prove my existence. I don’t know why. Those who want to prove their existence live in the realm of the inexistent. They are bizarre people who write love letters to themselves trying to deceive others. Any trick is a cry for recognition. Any cry for recognition is a basic assertion of impotence.

What was I doing? Oh, I was trying to get into my red dress. I couldn’t get it over my hips. The humidity of the night must have made it stick to my skin. Did you laugh again? Stop. Put your shirt on. We’re going out.

Anyway, I was talking about the absence of existence itself which always leads to sorcery. The skin of an eel caught in the spring, dried, stuffed with rose petals and rosemary, chopped and hidden behind the head of the bed. A night spent in that bed will haunt the two lovers for life. Like I haunt you.

How did you call me? Why did you use that name? Yes, it is my first name, but nobody uses it. Everyone calls me Gabriela.

Stop calling me Anastasia. I am not resurrected yet. I don’t know who Anastasia is. I’ve never met her. But don’t get fooled. That doesn’t make her less dangerous than me.