Portfolios – Andrea L. Fry

The Snake

The SnakeIt had found a brother,a branch to stretch against.Both were gray with black argyle but the branch’srandom scabs of bark fell short of pattern.And the branch didn’t swell in slow motionlike its thicker twin,as a twitching rodent bulge passed barge-like, expanding,then deflating the diamond skinin glacial time, the snake’s black head pointing,like a finger in warning,eyes dull with processthat would go on at a pace painful only to us.We turned and looked away as in that dreamwhere you’re naked before a sea of eyes.You cover yourself with both hands,not godlike or dressed in fig leaf butgraceless, desperate to conceal.And…

Help Desk

Help DeskBefore I address your call, please confirm your name and password.A temporary code has been sent to your mobile phone, please enter this into the keypad.You must answer your security question before we can proceed: What is your favorite root vegetable?I’m sorry, your answers don’t match. Try again. What is your favorite root vegetable?I’m sorry, your answers don’t match. Try again. What is your favorite root vegetable?I’m sorry, your answers don’t match.Would you like to try a different security question?How many goats do you see in the following picture?☐ I am not a robot.OK, stop me when I have…

The Glitter of the Simple

The Glitter of the Simple Oh, I would divide the world into binaries, cast each earthly element to a pole⎯good or bad⎯according to its flag: The stonefish with its ugly mug. Black-whiskered tarantula. Simply by appearances I would judge. And likewise, disregarding conflicting evidence, I would crown the beautiful: The uncanny blues and gold of the poison dart frog. The sacred passion flower ringed by purple filaments, though its cool smiles nest in leaves of cyanide. Then I would round the numbers up or down, toss out their remainder, throw out the imperfect squares, too cumbersome to carry! I would…

Civilized

Civilized That summer in Powderhorn, Colorado, and us kids obsessed with the story of Packer, an old prospector caught in the San Juan mountains in Winter who ate his companions, then straggled out of the trees to the Los Pinos Indian Agency, not skeletal. My brothers, cousins and I said the word “cannibal” with gravity, which spoke our shock at discovering that the world held such horror. We drank Roy Rogers (ruby red soda) and pored over sepia photos of Packer in Old West picture books: moustache draped like a limp black snake, his beard a tangle of brush encircling…

Jimsonweed

Jimsonweed Angel’s trumpet, stink wort, Devil’s trumpet, hell’s bells: named and named again to try to nail its source of power. Each petal-point a corner of a twisted pinwheel, swastika in purple petticoat, these plain assassins live demurely in the dung and meadow. Purest vehicle of lethal dreams, it tunnels first behind the victim’s eyes and lets the night shine through like two black moons with the perfect symmetry of a double barrel. Then it sends the heart spinning away like a child’s top, irretrievable. Soon the voices. A few isolated laughs, until the voices reverberate, become a throng that…

The Bottle Diggers

The Bottle Diggers Away from the highway in the thick of leaveswe stumble on rubble, the foundation of a house.We scan the field for its onetime dump, for the subtle rise of hidden shapes, ground drapedlike the top of a pie. We walk through ourselves,search for bottles from another time, with boots and sticks we loosen the dirt from glinting heels and collarsthat stud the soil. Driven to find just one vessel intact,we sink to our knees to free each glimmer. Earth rises around us as if we, too, were broken glassor sullied china cups with yellow stems prancing aroundthe…

Catechism

Catechism Jenny Darsey said it was fact: they nailed his feet and hands to the tree. Then some guy stabbed him with a spear and blood gushed. There was blood everywhere, Jenny said. Like she was there. Then she ran to kick the ball. I held my breath. When Jenny came back, her face had changed. Then lowandbehoed, she said, just like that, lowandbehoed, He rose from the dead! I gasped, then chomped down hard on my sagging stick of red licorice.

The Renderer

The RendererOur Patsy died last night. Fifteen years with that horse, we had.A big ole gal, sweet and constant. You could set a little baby on Patsy’s back,send her down the lane and know that baby’d be safe,like pushing Moses’ little boat into the reeds.My boys were quiet this morning. No squabblin’. I knew they were wonderinghow they were going to live without their horse, how Patsy’s big old bodywould make its way to heaven.I told them that God would come and be real gentle with Patsy.Why He’d carry her across the sky to the most beautiful pasturecovered with grass…