Empire  Hands  

Lucas  McEuen  

   

Index

Epigraph- Mahatma Gandhi Comparison: I understand the pull One Dominate Impression: Quietus Two Catalog: keep this to myself Three Exegesis: Hiding Four Exegesis Painting: Rembrandt, Philosopher in Meditation Five Something new: So Striking Six

“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.”

Mahatma Gandhi

I understand the pull

Maria’s eyes flicker around and capture glances of everyone in the room. They all

hold drinks and among the sea of glass is the sound of hissing, like the misty film of

waves against the rocks. Drunken attendees with heavy hands set glasses down too

forcefully. Many shatter; others break off small pieces. The remaining glass form shapes

like mountains with sharp, pointy tops. Fingers do not dare to climb them.

A woman stands with her back to Maria and talks shrilly, like cutting glass, to a

man in a steam pressed suit. He stands, pinching the fabric of his pants, looking intently

into the woman’s eyes. Her words float through the air and rest themselves on his

shoulders. He tries to acknowledge them but cannot. They are foxes, elusive and hard to

grasp. He smiles and nods; feigning as best as he can that he is interested. The woman

seems not to mind. Her voice trails off. She looks down into her drink; he scuffs his foot

against the ground, and, smiling, they part ways. Turning, she bumps into Maria. The

wheat colored brandy in the glass rocks out over the edge, running down the side, spilling

onto the floor. The woman looks to Maria and walks on, not uttering a word.

Voices grow louder and everyone forms together watching the steam pressed suit

take the empty stage near the front. Maria cannot concentrate. The voices collide, sand in

the flame, melting thick with a hiss and pop. Her eyes dart around but don’t catch

anyone’s. She positions her hands, taking one inside the other, and begins picking her

way through the crowd, avoiding as many shoulders as she can. Once passed them all,

she breathes in.

Quietus

The light fell outward from the center of the ceiling, and the walls became washed

in a dull, dingy yellow as the casing around the light was clear and did not shade the bulb.

It made everything look sick or unclean, no matter the room’s upkeep.

He looked into the mirror that hung on the wall. He was looking around

himself at the furniture scattered about the room. There wasn’t much. His mind wouldn’t

let his eyes overlook the dust on the mirror that showed in the light. The bed stood

partially unmade and he stared at the made side. The sheets were perfectly settled except

for one rise that separated the plain of the made side from the jagged ripples of the

unmade side. He smiled at himself in the mirror and walked out of the room, leaving the

light on. The light remained on and the wash became dimmer throughout the day as it

flickered to stay alive.

As he left the apartment the door shut with an explosive sound that darted through

every room. He did not flinch, and continued on as if it didn’t happen. A silence fell once

the sound absorbed into the carpet. No one was there to witness. It was the quiet that

makes everything seem loud. The sounds always rose after he left.

When he came home he let the door swing open and hit the wall, sound echoing

through the house again. He waited to hear a sound.

He walked into the bedroom. The unmade side still sat. The made side still sat.

Everything was gray, as the light had given up. He shrugged, stood at the end of the bed,

jerked at the side of the sheets, pulling them straight. The ripple fell uniform.

   

Keep this to myself Dog’s bark; headlights Street signs no longer hold a message one night asleep another night: feet wear down pavement. Windows rattle; the door shuts Streetlights etch me across the cars flick of the wrist 2 A.M. start-up “I never wanted you to leave.” eyes grow heavier, “But you stayed, and I saw what it did.” your pout flashes of deep purple nail polish, you trace the lines of your mouth gritting teeth grinning smile You always turn away I had to leave we slowly lose grip polish scratches off horizon lines break hands fall away Then 2 A.M. fades then the headlights dim then the dogs stop.

Hiding Think; don’t think. Too much time spent doing nothing. Only sleep fixes just enough. A hand away, reaching, telling you: “You will never know patience, nor glee.” An end always finds you, somewhere, somehow, someone. Why won’t you wait? Sit at that Goddamned fork, roam only enough to make it out alive. Don’t be nothing. Young and in the way, lost to those greatly received Not so gravely damaged. Fracture behind wood; Find god’s teeth littering grass, stand so long indents break down green Mountains. No words, but standing over soles fading, meshing, colliding green. Standing too long. Leaving: They can stay so long, listening and holding. Slipping through their fingers An iron window, a solid estate. Lingering in the ground so long as to stay forever kneeling.

Never enough to hold oneself up. It was too early I lost my shine, I’ll get by.    

 Rembrandt- Philosopher in Meditation

     

So  Striking    Through  trees,  stepping,  cratering,  plunging  feet    deep  into  leaves  and  grass.    Never  falling  into  anything  you  don’t  want  to.  Scrapes  and  bruises    covered  with  blue  Band-­‐Aids,  exhaled  breathes,    and  anti  bacterial  mists.    Never  ending  pink  skies  emblazoned  t-­‐shirts:  Luck  never  dies.  The  supper  bell  only  rings  twice  followed  by  lightning  bugs  and  cricket  chirps.      All  to  let  you  know    you  still  exist.    Miss  this  as  you  age.  nothing  will  last,    or  stay  the  same.  Always  expanding,  growing  with  you    You  will  dream  it  You  will  live  it,    and  never  forget    Grace  Falls.  Not  aging  well,  and  memories  falter,  slip.  You  only  have  so  much  time.  You’re  asked,  “What  will  you  do?”  At  this  life  you  don’t  have  an  answer.    Contemplate  if  one  exists,  A  dream  or  cooked  up  imagination.  The  men  who  set  these  boundaries  will  never  see  anything  in  your  same  light    To  some  Grace  is  atmosphere.  To  others,  location.