Victoria Melekian
On an Ordinary Afternoon in Late August, I Was Clobbered by Happiness
Happiness trumpeted her way
into the house, leading a parade
of gymnasts, drummers, and a juggler
on a unicycle through the kitchen,
around the island to the dining room,
up and down the stairs. She twirled
her baton, the gymnasts backflipped,
and the juggler tossed flaming torches.
At the back door, she tooted her whistle
and I asked her to stay, but Happiness
said, “Oh, honey, don’t worry. I’ll be back.
This is just a burst,” and she flung her baton,
missing the ceiling fan but not my head.
Another whistle blow and she was out the door.
The parade followed her up the street.
I watched till there was nothing left to see,
then grabbed a broom and swept confetti
into a sparkling orange and red pile.
Open Your Eyes, Rhonda
after Help Me, Rhonda, song by Brian Wilson
Forever
on repeat
you help helping him,
this dude is needy trouble—
sixty-two times
“help, help me,”
no dinner date,
no pink peonies,
no sweet note,
nothing but
you’re so fine, Rhonda.
Sixty-two crybaby whines,
sixty-two crimson red flags
flapping on sixty-two poles
planted in your grass.
The Hesitation is This
after Kelli Russell Agodon
There’s always a good boy
waiting to nuzzle your palm
and stare into your soul. A puppy
who sits for bacon treats, fetches
his leash when you say walk.
Next thing you know, he’s asleep
on your bed sixteen years
until he can’t jump up anymore
and you’re guiding that sweet dog
to his dinner bowl at night, counting
checkmarks on the quality of life
questionnaire. I swear, Kirby
was the last: his crate, his bed, the leash,
the treats, his raggedy racoon lovey.
Victoria Melekian writes poetry and short fiction. Her work has appeared in print and online and has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. She lives with her husband in Carlsbad, California where the weather is almost always perfect. For more, visit her website https://victoriamelekian.com
