"The Garden of Eden"
I read Hemingway on the red couch in the far right corner of his apartment as the Arizona sunlight, sliced into ribbons, laid itself silently across my legs.
--
Leaves fell from the tree tops as though wept. She was crying childish tears onto the ground for what was and what will be, what wasn't and what has yet to be seen. Her cradle came crashing down from amongst the boughs and she lay on the ground, heaped between the leaves. She crushed the dry ones into fistfulls of confetti. She was earth bound and grieving.
She went to church most Sundays; wore brooches, meticulously chosen for their seasonal relevance. Florals in spring, insects in summer, dark jewel tones in the fall, and geometrical patterns in stark winter. She tithed theatrically: opened her purse wide, sifted through it so that the gold pan paused in the pew next to her, unsnapped her wallet with a "click" that echoed off the oak pews, and laid the bills, folded exactly in half, on the bottom lined with red felt.
She swept her hand over her body "in the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. Forever and ever Amen."
--
The lights of cities from 10,000 feet are colonies of bioluminescent algae in the darkness. The points of light (sometimes fuzzy, sometimes hard and distinct) have grown in clusters and send out stalks (street lamps lining roads) with the intent to multiply. The points pulse as though alive and the world looks like the fertile silt of the sea floor.
My deja vu, in its intensity, has the metallic ringing of the good silver between my teeth. Its violence makes me question my sense of reality, makes me think "maybe this has happened before... perhaps, even, I dreamt it."
I pull my hair back, I fold my hands and wait it out. Eventually, it feels its unwelcome and leaves.
--
I wait for my baggage and miss the feeling of your hair beneath my hands.
--
Leaves fell from the tree tops as though wept. She was crying childish tears onto the ground for what was and what will be, what wasn't and what has yet to be seen. Her cradle came crashing down from amongst the boughs and she lay on the ground, heaped between the leaves. She crushed the dry ones into fistfulls of confetti. She was earth bound and grieving.
She went to church most Sundays; wore brooches, meticulously chosen for their seasonal relevance. Florals in spring, insects in summer, dark jewel tones in the fall, and geometrical patterns in stark winter. She tithed theatrically: opened her purse wide, sifted through it so that the gold pan paused in the pew next to her, unsnapped her wallet with a "click" that echoed off the oak pews, and laid the bills, folded exactly in half, on the bottom lined with red felt.
She swept her hand over her body "in the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. Forever and ever Amen."
--
The lights of cities from 10,000 feet are colonies of bioluminescent algae in the darkness. The points of light (sometimes fuzzy, sometimes hard and distinct) have grown in clusters and send out stalks (street lamps lining roads) with the intent to multiply. The points pulse as though alive and the world looks like the fertile silt of the sea floor.
My deja vu, in its intensity, has the metallic ringing of the good silver between my teeth. Its violence makes me question my sense of reality, makes me think "maybe this has happened before... perhaps, even, I dreamt it."
I pull my hair back, I fold my hands and wait it out. Eventually, it feels its unwelcome and leaves.
--
I wait for my baggage and miss the feeling of your hair beneath my hands.