(no subject)
A short, unedited poem that I wrote on a fifteen minute break from editing Ghosts I Have Loved, and not-writing Dante in Wonderland, or whatever it's going to be called.
Also, if someone can tell me why livejournal's spellcheck is so awful, I would be grateful.
my father, lost in the orange groves
i dreamt it so often that i stopped
counting the days since my initial
arrival. córdoba was my confidant
by default, because the inchoate
apparition of my father was
mercurial and i often found it
tangled in the orange blossoms,
having lost control of sense and
self. there were fresh footsteps
attesting to meditative circles along
the periphery of the courtyard,
but i had never seen his dense
hiking boots touch ground. when
i asked for him to sink so we could
speak at eye-level, my voice was
filled with such bitter wishfullness
that he did not comply. on his belt,
he wore a brass compass whose
needle spun wildly between the
cardinal directions, clockwise
and counter, and sometimes both
at once. when i inquired as to its
origins, he blinked slowly and
inhaled the scent of a freshly
peeled orange for two and a half
minutes before answering,
i traded with a psychopomp
for it, a quiet spirit that i found
drifting through my ventilator,
and i thought, what price did
you pay for something that
could only ever get you lost?
did i dream you, sir, or are you
dreaming me?
Also, if someone can tell me why livejournal's spellcheck is so awful, I would be grateful.
my father, lost in the orange groves
i dreamt it so often that i stopped
counting the days since my initial
arrival. córdoba was my confidant
by default, because the inchoate
apparition of my father was
mercurial and i often found it
tangled in the orange blossoms,
having lost control of sense and
self. there were fresh footsteps
attesting to meditative circles along
the periphery of the courtyard,
but i had never seen his dense
hiking boots touch ground. when
i asked for him to sink so we could
speak at eye-level, my voice was
filled with such bitter wishfullness
that he did not comply. on his belt,
he wore a brass compass whose
needle spun wildly between the
cardinal directions, clockwise
and counter, and sometimes both
at once. when i inquired as to its
origins, he blinked slowly and
inhaled the scent of a freshly
peeled orange for two and a half
minutes before answering,
i traded with a psychopomp
for it, a quiet spirit that i found
drifting through my ventilator,
and i thought, what price did
you pay for something that
could only ever get you lost?
did i dream you, sir, or are you
dreaming me?