‘from the lake made new’, ‘Vegas’ & ‘May ‘20’

Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show, Twelve from Texas, was performed in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection, Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away, is published by Kelsay Books. His monologues have been performed most recently at The Invisible Theatre in Tucson and the Pro English Theatre in Kiev, Ukraine. Gallery - https://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/f861509283

from the lake made new

I traded atlantic for pacific, pines for palms, to grow into someone new.

Now I run away from home and end up where I began, starting anew. 

Gentle, the lake takes my troubles mixed with sunscreen and oil slick, and sweeps them under the current.

Sunshine sparkles off the surface, and I am made new. 

Clouds blush brilliant red, pink, and orange wisps in the sky. Rippling water mirrors trees that shed pine needles like a snowglobe.

My world is small and vast, brand new. 

Days flower, milkweed and bergamot, and nights char, burning wood and freckled stars.

I rinse the soot from my skin and smoke from my hair, a baptism, made new. 

August rain pitters against the roof. Moths take refuge, little ghosts haunting my ceiling.

The woods seep dark green, heavy with wet and petrichor. Made new. 

The lake breathes– curtains billow and constrict against an open window, rolling waves steady as a heartbeat.

I drift off to loon calls and wake to whistling cicadas, renewed.

Vegas 

I’m stuck in an iPad– the screen-sky runs Smirnoff ads, phone sex hotlines, and pimped rides. Hunched like a question mark over a slot machine, I push the button, push the button– and lose my last 20 bucks. I venture New York to Paris, hopeless and free, with a watered down G&T and a dream. I rattle in my mini skirt; February is frigid, even in the desert. I pass strange faces– angels donning wings, push-up bras, and colgate-white sneakers, ogres in stained khakis and aloha shirts, gripping cigars like swords. A clown on stilts almost tramples me and I think I’m a goner, but at the last second, a trapeze artist flies through the air and shoves me out of harm’s way. You saved my life, I gasp. She winks and ziplines into the night. I continue on, but get lost in a cloud of cigarette smoke. A wise Queen takes pity and points her long acrylic nail toward the Eiffel tower, my shining star, and I’m on my merry way. In Paris, the swirly carpet speaks to me, and it’s seen some shit. The ATM fee is $12. I’ve come this far, so I swallow my doubt and take my crispy bills to Blackjack. One more game, then one more, one more. 10 minutes and I’m back to zero. I cry outside next to a puddle of vomit– not for the money, but the whole damn city. Elvis pats my shoulder and says honey, that’s all right.

may '20

we broke the glass ceiling, or maybe it was a funhouse mirror, reaping 4 years of bad luck. red hats point grubby fingers, the rest of us seagulls squawking, circling over the last dorito. months crawl, we sweat out spring fever contagious as a bad mood, drinking too much strawberry wine, reading tarot cards, tiptoeing over yellow tape around lake michigan only to behold new concrete, marching to the beat of recited mantras, swearing things will be different when we reach the other side. our elders rest in folding chairs, soaking sunshine on stoops, mugs of hot tea in hand as they salute the kids planning bloodshed, preparing to sacrifice their bodies for greater good. generations cycle like washing machines, churning the same conclusions and calling it new. we clutch cardboard signs, righteous in our own defiance, but they know better. you can only bet on a losing dog so many times before you learn to save your money.

Cate Herrold is a writer interested in personal essays and prose poetry. Hailing from Massachusetts, she landed in Los Angeles where she currently lives with her 2 cats. She is an editor for the LA Valley College’s literary journal, The Bite, and publishes work on her Substack, which you can find at catethoughts.substack.com