Saturday 3/03/2007 11:25:00 PM

She sat down at her desk. A bag of microwave popcorn suddenly gone flat. Telling her story in moments of silence. The scrape of her bedroom slippers charging the carpet as he walked. In mute cyclones. High heeled whispers sobering from toe to throat. Picking all the fruit already fallen. Empty gloves corrupted by the flecks of skin holed up inside it. Flat skeletons with color as their only mask. Dark outlines. Grey paper. Like their eyes are when it's over. Circumstance her infallible savior.

Every word. Every touch. Inadmissible evidence.

Only a daughter and a son left. To testify that she had once lived.

Loathe in the conversion of Fahrenheit to Celsius. Rows of miniature soldiers sharing their plastic match.

Her life the anecdote. Her eyes at the edge of her nose. Caterpillars dead in their cocoons. Half-way through metamorphosis.

Truth like a puddle teasing a child to dirty itself. Not the first time.

2 comments:
Veronica said...

I really felt this one, deeply.

"Truth like a puddle teasing a child to dirty itself. Not the first time"

Very telling.

alcoholic poet said...

would it be pointless to ask why you felt this one in particualr?

cuz i'd be interested to know.



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