Of all human moods
by Adené Mae
A pool room. Norristown, Pennsylvania. 6$ for the hour. I grab a chair by the wall. There’s no beer. & I do not play this game anymore. I retired after Dad threw his fender strat at the basement table. Waste of money if you ask me. I can feel my skin- barren of eyes. It is dense, this air, this room. But no smoking allowed. I quit cigarettes. Only a few hours ago. Really, my bank went dry. There is skin- coated in my sin. There’s chalk. How else are you meant to play pool. It is loud, but conversation feels stiff. There is a jukebox. It lightens the taste of the air, otherwise stale. This chair creeks, as I move my eyes to listen to your eyes. Avoid mine. I feel my skin (again). Minutes pace the clock’s hours; big hand moves slow. Hotel California must be in my coke. You hold your stick weird in your left hand. My Daddy never taught me to stand like that when shooting my stick. Put chalk on your stick; widen your legs; prop the end of the stick between your bent pointer & thumb; steady your stare, your hand; shoot. That’s how you shoot pool. When I stitch my eyelids to the ceiling and start to look down. I can almost find the night. The lights never dim here. Fluorescence is painful to my eyes, but they are shit brown. It’s what my brother told me. I am wearing contacts, so they burn harder,faster. You move away in the chair next to mine. I can feel my skin (again). I thought I already survived my own survival, but now I have to keep. The sound of the color of the seas of tables supersedes chance at thought. The blue cannot wash away the sin from my skin. I’ve tried. To beat the beat in my chest. It stings like Burberry cologne in my mouth and paint thinner poured on my cut-up hands. Our eyes can almost, just, touch in the corners of mold. & I can feel chalk rubbed between my fingers. Between the sticks and balls. The oppressive space between our skin blankets mine. Navarre asked-Is it better to Speak, or to Die? Die.
Anytime I can’t feel my skin but yours, sin wins the game.