RICK OR TREAT

Burnt, acrid, sweet: something leaking: a gust of wind from the water, the money we've scraped behind bricks, the faint taste of gas from a loose joint. So carefully taped, set, assembled, tightened, but the bubble doesn't lie: behind the thin membrane, the surface expands, catches the light, bursts: a code for the latest attack: spies plot the overthrow in the closed room while the afternoon sends out the decoys: go ahead, sit by the lake, let the fall's last sun warm the cells: tonight we'll drink, eat, walk the glittering streets as if we belonged. Maybe we can escape the address, find another party where the guest we've awaited for years will introduce himself, reward this hunger we've worn for a coat: a glass of wine, a piece of cheese we've never tasted before: the skin leaps to those syllables: how about this song: painful hours we've dragged through the months burn up, vanish like old clothes, like one of those bubbles: for a few seconds, perfectly round, and then . . . the perimeter breached again, the round of explosions the weather we're learning to live: maybe this shirt, that's the idea, rethread the pipe again, fit and tighten and finally, just the dribble of soap inert against the sealed joint, the bubbles gone, the ache seeping into the back as we gather the tools, close the door, head into the night we planned: how nice of your friend to invite us, her dinner will be so delicious, and there's nothing to eat in the house. But really, I don't mind staying behind, tell her how sorry I am. Someone's got to keep watch these days, I'm just happy you can go to the party. Let me know who else was there, what costumes they wore. The drunk picking through the alley is wearing my old coat, arranging the pile in his rusted cart. From this window, he looks bigger than any of us, another species, huge, black hollows of eyes staring up. If there's anything left to bring back, I'm starved.

JOY

This time they were just friends out to lunch, he didn't even imagine her breasts. High collar dress protecting them both, handshake perfectly polite, it actually worked. Hey! Ya! Ga! how about it? Okay, so the exclamation marks are dumb old fashion, but this is half a pitcher of margaritas, warm summer, a thousand miles from home. At least it was once, and it won't be the last time. Just look at that girl. She's twenty years late, but what a scene. They actually sent the check! He fixed the ceiling lamp! Later, he'll look for the gun, but the Evil Empire's dead, across the world ancient enemies are on the edge of peace, the city dodged the latest strike. Maybe tonight he'll have sex again with the wife, just the way she likes it, patient and slow as she lies to the ministrations, and isn't she good to go along? Again the organs will manage, not perfect of course, but what is? The kids race to the head of the class and learn to make a living. Don't you love this rain? Now, get to sleep.

COMPANION STAR

A blown glass bauble surrounds a streak of ash, a setting to catch light, and rainbow. It's a table ornament, or necklace-- a thick disc held by a leather lace, a real object, clear but small, to carry everywhere, as if the air were more, inhabited by the life we've all dreamed: a way to go on. It's what he's come to-- or her-- whoever we loved, but without the old baggage, hand raised to punish another mistake, the bankrupt business, the picnics he never took you on. Sorry, it won't bleed; but hey, that's not fair. It was another time, you've kicked that corpse to boredom. Take a breath, it's easy. Don't you feel better?

Phyllis does, delighted with her idea, so much more than a jar of ash, air. Nice to have you around, I guess: don't you dare laugh! This way, who cares who the wife slept with while I was home with the kids. After all, I only cracked her once, no blood, bruise healed in a week. The war? More stories of another planet. The ruined car, the scandal they want to pin on the president float through the party, and the kitchen fairly sparkles. When Mother arrives for the weekend we can show her this future, all of us taking comfort. We had the best burger in the neighborhood after the concert, table so close to the stage, the music's daily conversations blended to perfect harmony.

It's called "Companion Star." Ninety per cent of suns have one, permanently close, sharing their light as they race away. What more could we want? The kids said their parts at the Easter assembly, and everyone applauded. Sex, maybe, but luckily the body's gradual decent eases down the skin. You're finally whole.

A DAY OFF

She stares at the trucks rumbling up the pavement, the gray sea of uniforms arranging the city: a broom in a window, one pair of shoes, one dress. The line flutters over the water, and she can feel the rod light in her hand, the flick of the wrist, hear the soft splash as the end falls. A tug and she hauls, tips off balance as it flies back. Then the faint rock of the boat as she casts again, feels the breeze rippling the surface she stares into, confusing the line with its object: is that it? Is that?-- the book to explain the boat with its hunger the country can't keep out, the child the soldiers kill, or just the same floor to wash the hundredth time, the laundry, the dishes, the meal to cook while the baby goes on screaming? Tonight the authorities go to the theater. They're dressing up, murmuring into the phone: where will the boat settle? It's not as easy as it looks. You've got to pull back so gently, so fast, know when to let go. You've got to dangle and wait, watch the end of the line. The soldiers spread out in the streets, the shops closing, the houses boarded up. Go ahead, change the bait. It's a mess, but you get used to it. When it rains they'll hit so fast she'll hardly notice.A PLACE

(after "Coriolanus")

We hear them mounting the stairs, but there's no point troubling: no one we know is dying today. If the screams aren't music, we can always make arrangements: a little tv, a little wine, so what if this fever drags on, buries itself in the chest? Close the door, slip downstairs, I promise they won't find us. When we wake, the radio goes on as if the war were another country. How can we believe in that death? Onstage, the ravished woman carries the villain's hand in her mouth while the audience cheers and laughs. Just wait while I slip out and get one of those donuts, so fresh they're irresistible. When I come back the plot's complete, they're arranging the capital: get rid of those flowers, widen the street, locks for every door. With the curfew extended, the streets will be quiet at last. Finally, we're going to work. Too bad about the restaurants we loved, but this soup isn't bad. Just be careful what you say on the phone. They call it a hospital, but no one leaves.

BEHIND THE LINES

Once it was bright out there; I know you saw it. Your best friend made it back safely. When the explosions resume, we can duck and save ourselves. A wonderful day, surely the weather's turned. But something buried in a brain's tunnel rips up the hall, and we never saw it dragging us into the ward's stink, the empty hum of an engine breathing its storm. Wrapped in the cold wet, someone feels it gather, and call, shaking the edge of the cell. This is the invasion, hands swimming away as the weapons are launched. His cellmate heard the cry, rose to join it, but when we finally came to help, it was too late. We're supposed to staunch the wound, and cure it, we insist we're on their side, but they don't know the words. Instead, they're wrecking the fields, taking over the city. It's not theirs yet, but there's no way to explain: it has to be their way. And it is.