It is more than a box. Tortoiseshell top, brown velvet-lined, an ornamental crustacean passed down. She who turned me said it would remind me of her. It doesn’t. I think past her, before her, to the workmanship, the small European initials of the craftsman, the slim silver legs. I’ve kept it empty until my love gave me a talisman for protection: a fragile ring of white gold. At its center, an emerald. Small cuts create broken light when I hold it to the lamp. In daylight, what would it be? Would it refract the spirit of she who wore it, her energy now trapped in the metal, her lifeblood pulling me inevitably downward? She is crafty, this woman with green eyes. I cannot look upon the ring without seeing her translucent skin, the sheaf of hair dyed red, of course, again, her eyes. I have not opened the box for three hours; perhaps I am healed of her.

Cutting Through the Woods

Colette Jonopulos

Bears, those broad-backed animals with claws the length of my palm. None of us wanted to kill them for sport, but hunger makes you do disappointing things. Like the time we were flashing across London, six of us in tandem, and a flock of geese landed at our feet. This though, was extreme thirst: days without feeding, some of us wild with desire. (Although readers of novels will not believe me, we do not take randomly from the populace.) And being so far from a city, and so long without sustenance, the bears seemed viable in ways we had not imagined. To drink of another species, their fur repugnant, was to gag frequently, even on the idea of them. Then the slow burn of new blood, an undercurrent of life widening out in arcs of pleasure, until BEAR careened through us. It is night now, the city has become a wild place of beauty, thousands of cold stars so near to the ground; the animals bedded down quietly in the mountains, and unaware.

THE PRAGMATIST

Colette Jonopulos

This life, the one I didn’t desire, is fragmented into seasons. Not your human seasons of renewal and rest, but seasons of humanity’s disclosure. Can you imagine me at the battle of Stones River, suffering the death of my brothers who fought against me? That was a season of humanity. Another season was more personal: Paris and the infirmity of an artist’s ennui. The presence of easy death has jaded me. I am less inclined to care, which gives me clarity. I was at peace, until an unexpected woman, with nothing to distinguish her from the current population of NYC, turned to me and said, You are peculiar, the way you move among the crowd. A few words from a near-stranger and I was spent. I own buildings, buy restaurants when I’m fond of their crème brule. If a man were to challenge me in court, I would win by virtue of hiring lawyers who don’t lose without personal cost. This is not to say I’m unfeeling. I’m pragmatic. I’ve been dead a long time. Until her, I expected to remain so.

CODA

Colette Jonopulos

That night became a symbol of our brotherhood, the matrix that held us bound. Our small group was slowed by a crush of humans all rushing to find a meal, or to meet someone before the movie previews began. Each winding strand of their blood was discernible, distracting me from conversation. The flush of my friends’ faces told me they had fed, and fed well. Their every word was about Anna Netrebko, and each male vowed we’d reach our opera seats before the curtain ascended. Julian, Oscar called to me, my ears are useless if they cannot hear her voice again. She is Verdi’s Viloletta in the flesh! I know my face showed doubt. As delicious as Suzette in Vienna, he added. You do remember Suzette? I thought of the ensuing 140 years and laughed, but examining Oscar, I found him sincere. Still, my skin was icy and thinly stretched over my face, my hands nearly as white as the cuffs of my shirt. I would leave these unbound vampires to their Anna, and find a tender curve of neck to entertain me. I turned and ran toward the narrow streets where night was less glamorous, where lights dimmed considerably and clothing only covered, never adorned. There, in a downstairs window, a woman sat alone, facing a smoldering fire, a book turned upside down on her left knee. Beside me suddenly: Oscar and William, Alex and Gray Mouse. What of Anna? I asked. There are always second acts, Oscar said, his head bending close to mine, his hand resting between my shoulder blades, our single pulsing breath the last sound in the woman’s ears.

Colette Jonopulos lives, writes, and edits in Eugene, OR, where Bob Marley and dreads are still popular. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Crab Orchard Review, cho, PMS, HeartLodge, among others. She currently co-edits and publishes Tiger’s Eye: A Journal of Poetry.