Spin Cycles - Charles Coe - E-Book

Spin Cycles E-Book

Charles Coe

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Beschreibung

Brilliant, homeless and nearly invisible, a young man wanders through Boston, looking for meaning and hope. Extreme mood swings and an unusual outlook on life make it impossible for him to thrive in mainstream society. He finds comfort in laundromats, where he calms himself by watching clothes tumble round and round and round. And in the streets he finds other people like himself, below the radar, laboring to survive. Poignant and buoyant, Spin Cycles is a story of loss, discovery, and, just possibly, redemption.

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Seitenzahl: 49

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

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Charles Coe

Spin Cycles

Charles Coe is the author of two books of poetry, All Sins Forgiven: Poems for My Parents and ­Picnic on the Moon (Leapfrog Press). His poetry has appeared in literary reviews and anthologies such as ­Poesis, The Mom Egg, Solstice Literary Review, and Urban Nature. Charles won a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Cultural Council, and his poems have been set to music by a number of composers. Co-­chair of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union, Charles was selected by the Associates of the Boston Public Library as a “Boston Literary Light for 2014.”

First published by GemmaMedia in 2014.

GemmaMedia230 Commercial StreetBoston MA 02109 USA

www.gemmamedia.com

©2014 by Charles Coe

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

18 17 16 15 14 1 2 3 4 5

978-1-936846-47-4

Library of Congress Cataloging-­­in-­­Publication Data

Coe, Charles, 1952– [Poems. Selections] Spin cycles / Charles Coe. pages ; cm. — (Gemma’s Open Doors) I. Title. PS3553.O338A6 2014 811′.54—dc23 2014028780

Cover by Laura Shaw Design

Inspired by the Irish series designed for new readers, Gemma’s Open Doors provide fresh stories, new ideas, and essential resources for young people and adults as they embrace the power of reading and the ­written word.

Brian BouldreyNorth American Series Editor

Open Door

Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.

Seneca, 4 bce–ce 65

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

One

How beautiful.

The late afternoon sun has turned windows in buildings along the Charles River into golden mirrors. Light shines through the few leaves still clinging to the giant oaks. The wind plays its timeless game with the leaves. One moment it blows hard to make them flutter and wave. Then it dies down to leave them hanging quiet and still, waiting for a new gust.

Eight women in a racing boat are rowing hard as they approach the Weeks Bridge. Their oars kiss the water’s surface in perfect rhythm. A motorboat moves along beside, and a woman with a blond ponytail tucked in a Harvard baseball cap leans over the side, shouting instructions and encouragement through a megaphone.

The boat disappears under the bridge, comes out the other side, and continues on its way, slicing smoothly through the calm water. I feel a pulse as I watch them speed down the river. It’s a drumbeat so low it can only be felt, not heard. It’s the rowers’ hearts, beating together as one as they row together like an engine made of flesh and bone. The pulse grows fainter as the boat, tiny as a bathtub toy, disappears around a bend in the river.

I’m sitting alongside the riverbank, leaning against a tree on a sunny Saturday afternoon in early fall. The grass and walkways along the river are filled with walkers and joggers and bike riders. A group of people playing volleyball on the lawn behind the Kennedy School laughs and shouts. The day seems cool to picnic, but a few blankets are spread out on the lawn. A young couple is smiling at their child, a toddler with a pink ribbon in her hair. The little one has just taken a bite of a pickle and can’t decide if she likes it. She frowns for a moment, then breaks out in a giggle.

The students are back at Harvard after their summer break and they are buzzing with the excitement of the new school year. It is strange that I keep coming back to this place that’s such a big a part of the life I’ve left behind. Or maybe it’s a life that left me. The memories are painful and strong, and perhaps I shouldn’t be here. But on such a beautiful day it’s hard to stay away.

As the afternoon shadows grow ­longer, the air is turning cold. The young family is packing up their basket. The volleyball game is over, and players start taking down the net. I rise from the grass, brush the leaves from my clothes, and start to walk along the river toward Boston.

A woman is slowly pushing a baby carriage. The baby reaches out with both arms, wiggling her fingers, learning how they work. Our eyes meet and I see her look of wonder. An old soul fascinated by her new body. I smile as her mother tosses me a nervous glance and pushes the carriage faster.

I wish I could talk to the little one, try to explain how the world she’s landed on can be so beautiful and horrible at the same time. But I can’t. I would just frighten her mother. I feel a moment of sadness as I stop and watch the carriage move away.

But just then a single oak leaf falls to the sidewalk, glowing orange and red, and covered with delicate yellow veins. It was born as a bud that burst into brief green life and chose this moment to break free from its branch. Like a brightly colored bird on its first and only flight, it has drifted to the pavement at my feet.

The leaf lifts my spirit. I suddenly feel the blood moving through my own veins, the sap that fuels my body. When I’m feeling this way I have to be careful not to attract attention. I have to remember not to dance on a street corner when I hear a certain song on a car radio. Not to stand on the sidewalk laughing at a clever display in a store window. Because people are watching. They’re always watching.

I will feel the heat and see the judgment in their eyes. Then my winds shift. My thoughts turn thick and heavy, and every passing face is made of stone. And the great black swirling cloud that no one else can see floats above my head. It follows me as it always follows, with the patience of a vulture.