on a night like this
feet, size seven, leave prints on the heavily waxed floor. the arch is high on both. and the pressure is heaviest on the toes. it seems that sleep escapes another too.
tonight, a cool wind blows through the screened windows. white curtains part and dance to sea salt and jasmine. she remembers her. hair, silk strands as black as the heavens outside. her voice, soft like the whisper of a pleasant dream. they all loved her. and they all pierced her with the arrows of their bitterness when they realized they couldn't have her.
she stares at the wave of memories that flood before her eyes. silence fills her. and it's almost as if it would overflow like a sad song into the spaces between her realities.
when she was six, her family left the city to build their lives anew in an island. there she met a boy who taught her how to speak the local dialect. and the only otehr memory she has of him now is the story of his dog. his family lived in a hut by the sea, he said. for months, his father, a security guard for a smelting company didn't come home. food ran low but he couldn't complain to anyone, except to his dog. then one afternoon, the dog came home, a big chunk of pork between its teeth. for a week atleast, the dog brought home enough meat for the family. she remembers how she didn't believe him then. but now she does. in small barrios, life imitates imagination.
she attended public school for two years. her new friends introduced her to the shortcut trails in the woods behind the quadrangle. the trails led to hermits, streams, and cemeteries. the inscriptions on the gravestones fascinated her. what were the stories buried underneath, decaying not with the flesh?
at a corner table she sits and folds her legs. her toes are clean and the thought comforts her.
he used to paint them in innocent pink. he said they were pretty. and he'd make her smile, just like that. his was true love. hers was nonchalant fascination.
there are too many ghosts in this house. even the light refracted by a vase of wild orchids conjures their dreams.
and she, silent audience finds peace in remembering her own buried stories.
tonight, a cool wind blows through the screened windows. white curtains part and dance to sea salt and jasmine. she remembers her. hair, silk strands as black as the heavens outside. her voice, soft like the whisper of a pleasant dream. they all loved her. and they all pierced her with the arrows of their bitterness when they realized they couldn't have her.
she stares at the wave of memories that flood before her eyes. silence fills her. and it's almost as if it would overflow like a sad song into the spaces between her realities.
when she was six, her family left the city to build their lives anew in an island. there she met a boy who taught her how to speak the local dialect. and the only otehr memory she has of him now is the story of his dog. his family lived in a hut by the sea, he said. for months, his father, a security guard for a smelting company didn't come home. food ran low but he couldn't complain to anyone, except to his dog. then one afternoon, the dog came home, a big chunk of pork between its teeth. for a week atleast, the dog brought home enough meat for the family. she remembers how she didn't believe him then. but now she does. in small barrios, life imitates imagination.
she attended public school for two years. her new friends introduced her to the shortcut trails in the woods behind the quadrangle. the trails led to hermits, streams, and cemeteries. the inscriptions on the gravestones fascinated her. what were the stories buried underneath, decaying not with the flesh?
at a corner table she sits and folds her legs. her toes are clean and the thought comforts her.
he used to paint them in innocent pink. he said they were pretty. and he'd make her smile, just like that. his was true love. hers was nonchalant fascination.
there are too many ghosts in this house. even the light refracted by a vase of wild orchids conjures their dreams.
and she, silent audience finds peace in remembering her own buried stories.
entrada de bismuth a las
10:11 p. m.
5 comentarios:
makes me think my soul is less tender than yours. you wear that heart on your sleeve like a badge.
trans, you always say that about me. i disagree though. it's just me writing. i hide behind too many veils.
jax, digging is a good exercise. especially when you're fucking angry. this time though, i was just amused.
veiled words or not they are still spellbinding. really enjoyed this.
cj! you're back! i'm kicking off my 3 inch heels and doing the chicken dance right about now. how are you? i'll hop over to your blog now hopeful to see goodies there at last. :)
ooohhh... i haven't seen u do the chicken dance before ... i demand a demo!
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