Parking Spaces… by Carrie Albert


Parking Spaces

She wore birkenstocks without socks
in winter. Her cheeks mirrored the light

pink of her pressed blouse.

Five minutes of morning affirmations
and she would float to the top,
cream in a cup. The labyrinth of fear
disappeared; suffering was tossed

in a bag, sent down the river.

In the dentist chair she took vacations,
meditating at the edge of a lotus pond,

amid hundreds of orchids.

After the stroke, fate caved in.

A nurse with rhino skin fed her rice
and carrot mush, parked her in the hall,

in line with the others.

Take me back to bed, please take me to bed.

Silenced by a syringe,
with her best friend still inside,

she began to float again.

She always could picture a parking space
before leaving home, delighted when
a car pulled out right where

she wanted to be.


As a child, I often wrote plays and performed them with friends. I wanted to be an artist who lived in an attic. I studied both visual art and literature in college and actually lived in an attic for 13 years. Poetry was always a vegetable I didn’t “get”, like beets, yet that’s what I wrote. Now I think poetry and beets are mysterious. Steamed beets are especially delicious with feta cheese, walnuts and pomegranate juice.

I catch the muse’s seeds from conceptual ideas, observation, memory, and dreams, along with found imagery and found words. Being in kind with surrealism, I observe the magic of inexplicable coincidence.

Copyright © 2011 by Carrie Albert


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