7am at the Depot

I overhear Kyle and Devin talking as they walk in my direction.
"Baklava," Devin says.
"You wear pastry on your face?" Kyle asks.
"No, ba-kla-va..."
"Yeah, pastry," Kyle repeats.
"No, you wear it when you go snowmobiling."
Back and forth a couple more times and then I butt in.

"Balaclava," I say.
"What?" says Devin.
"The hood thing," I say, "it's a balaclava. Baklava is a pastry."
"But it goes all over your face," Devin says.
"Yeah, like a ski-mask..." I say.
"Yeah..."
"Balaclava," I repeat. "Baklava is pastry. Turkish, I think."

"Yes," says Kyle, pointing emphatically.
"I'm gonna look this up," Devin says.

Five minutes later, I walk up to the desk where they both work.
"What did you call it, again? Baklavalavala?"
"Balaklava."

"I've always just known it as Baklava. I swear, everyone in Wisconsin calls it a Baklava."
He looks it up.
"See?" says Kyle.
"Damn," Devin says. He picks up the phone on his desk and dials a number in an area code I don't recognize.
"Who you calling?" I ask.
"My mom..." He stares straight ahead. "Hey mom, you just made me look like an idiot at work. Yeah, you call the thing you wear when you're snowmobiling a baklava, right? Yeah, turns out that's a pastry. Balaclava, that's what it's called. Yeah, because of you I told everyone at work I wear a pastry on my face. Yeah, thanks." Hangs up. "Damn woman."
"What did she say?" Kyle asks.
"She just laughed at me...thinks it's hilarious..."

END

Mysterious Currency

I studied Emily Dickinson a while ago and I just came across Sappho for the first time. I usually write fiction, but I decided to take a stab at combining their styles. The subject of the poem could be Dickinson, Sappho, or the object of the speaker's love. I sort of intended all three.

sacred—terrific—she moves
with lines and across—
alighting and departing
gentle ripples
weight of seven hearts and seven minds—
wind fumbles
but she is grace and terror