Danielle Notaro
Song for Swan Elias
There was a girl named Swan Elias. I don’t remember what grade she turned up in. She was overweight, nice and sweet, and had blue, cool blue eyes and light, wavy brown hair. I would watch her erase her paper. It seemed her hand and the eraser were made of the same
textures, gummy soft. And warm. It seemed she could erase her paper or incorrect markings so effortlessly.
Because there was, in my mind, this special oneness between her hand and the eraser. A certain chemical reaction which made the eraser really malleable.
Sometimes, when maybe I erased, I erased too hard and could leave a mark. A streak. But she could erase really cleanly. Leaving no tell-tale sign. Not that it mattered.
We were allowed to erase. But it was a kind of magic she possessed and performed and for some mysterious reason it caught my attention. I would become transfixed and allured by her head turning toward me with what I now imagine to be a seductive and sweet smile while she worked her wonder. I wonder if she was doing something to my heart and mind in that moment. Hypnotizing me slowly, warmly, and softening my heart, relaxing my zaniness, and releasing my uncontrollable urge to please. It was like a you can be near me look she gave, and back off a little and watch. You can swim in my electrical, star spinning aura. All those things kids, we kids were attracted to. Sparkles, bangles, gold, magenta, azure, rainbow colors
of glitter swirling in Swan Elias’ aura while she smiled at me. And I swirled with them. I was them for that moment and then would land in a pure stream of milky colored happiness.
Blue eyes, plump, warm hand. Clean white paper. Pink eraser. Charcoal pencil shaped to a fine point. A cylindrical hive of possibility humming at the tip. A cylindrical hive of possibility humming into a fine point. Shavings and curls of shavings resting sweetly in a metal canister—future beehives. No, future bird nests.
And I swear, I think Swan Elias wore a headband with birds and baby birds hatching from their nests. Her clothes are in my mind now brushed into a fine velvet.
Everything was fine about her. Her sweat beads, her chewed lips. She was good enough to eat. I must have been in love with her, though I didn’t know it. Her big, strong marks of letters, cursive on her paper. Her wrong answers. All of it was acceptable to me. All of her. All of Swan Elias acceptable to me. Swan Elias and her golden heart.
Orange Slice Ships
I.
I did something delightful.
I poured water
into the kitchen sink.
I stopped up the water
so it filled
the silver basin.
I didn’t put soap in it
or dishes or a baby
or anything like that.
No.
I ate an orange.
I didn’t vomit
in the sink.
I ate an orange.
I put the orange rind slices
in the shape of canoes
and row boats
in the water.
That’s what I did.
The cat
and me.
I hopped up onto the counter
to watch, watching them
floating—I didn’t think of it
then; now that I do—I was
on there, too, sailing home.
More than the orange rinds
shifting against the clear
water, the fragrance of orange blossoms in my memory.
I was going to Japan
or Florida or California
traveling the earth’s waterways,
my waterways
to get to the home
of the first orange.
I don’t know why
that’s so important—
first, second—they are
all first—really.
II.
I wanted to hear that song.
The song of the siren waters
curling around those orange slice
ships—around my intelligence
and ignorance and fear.
I wanted to be left alone
and loved for exactly the woman I am,
who I am.
Since I could not have woods,
animals, wilderness,
economic, social, or political power,
I would journey on these real rinds
to the power center of my
imagination.
I would unfurl
my gifts to everyone.
I would place myself on one skiff
and ghosts of myself on the nine or ten
others, thereby deceiving my opponent.
I would live royally.
A queen I would be
sailing my ship through
clear waters—in the dark.
The moon, morning star
in my hand, my beacons.
I would live again and again.
I would grow to the other
side of the paradisal shore
where my love and loved ones
greet me.
Bio:
Danielle Notaro is the author of “Limn The Mask”and a talented performer and actor who has been a part of the local arts community for decades.