Elizabeth Hughey

Heavier Than Air

Just now, I designed my own hobble skirt on the Internet. 
That is, I designed "a long skirt, popular between 1910 and
1914, that is so narrow below the knees that it restricts 
normal stride." It will cost one hundred and twenty five
dollars plus shipping. I could get as many pockets as I
wanted. Inside a pocket, I would like a shot of whisky, and 
inside that shot, a gentleman scribbling his number. Where
shall I hobble? I learned that the Wright brothers had a
sister who tied rope around her shins to keep her skirt
down when she flew in the machine called a "fixed-wing
aircraft." Why is this important? Because I am going to
write a dissertation on it. I will look at the world
through a chandelier tied up with mosquito netting. The sad
thing about a bore is that he thinks that everything is so
interesting. I'm here to tell you that it's not. My office
smells like a camera shop. I know a furniture store that
smells like a bakery, and a bakery that smells like a clean
baby, and a baby that smells like the soap it is carved out
of. Take her home. Bathe with her. She's not disappearing. 
She is diffusing. Step out of the bath without rinsing.
Don't rinse her off your skin. You can never rinse her off.
Her name is Katherine Wright. She is your sister, too.

 

It's Called Virtual Water

In the tub, I read an article on water called "The Last
Drop" by Michael Specter. I wonder if Michael Specter is in
his pool house reading my poem about a pool house. In it, I
say that peeing outdoors before a wedding while the girls
are watching the bride get her hair done is like knowing
that a crooked river burst into flames in 1969. Yesterday,
I didn't know that. Nor did I know that it takes more than
a thousand drops of water to make one drop of coffee. I 
tell you this because I am writing an article about water
called "The Last Drop." When I drink coffee again, I will 
think about all the drops of water that went into making my
coffee. I wonder how many drops of coffee it took to make
one drop of bathwater. I will add "water consumption" to my
list of items to consider at bedtime. I will think about it
right after I determine whether or not I said anything to 
hurt anyone's feelings. After that, I usually drift off to
sleep wondering if anyone is thinking of me as she drifts
off to sleep.

It's 3 PM and I Miss 1 PM

I miss lunch. Long stretches of carpet connect me to you.
Cafeterias. Assembly lines. I am right-handed enough. I
feel confident that 4 will get here, and I can't wait for
7, when stepping into the cold feels like the moment after
you flip your car into an icy lake and you wade out pulled
by the help of strangers. You are too young to drive. Your
mother is at home in front of the stove. Your brother is
drumming pencils at his desk. Your girlfriend is still at
practice. I miss love.

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