edited from a comment I made to logan on his webpage
Twenty branches and a bird are all that separate me from the rushing street below. Head covered and eyes traced with want I enter the city as if it were a confessional. The man on the corner gives me cake in a brown bag; the Turkish teenager at the market puts free figs and pomegranates in the same bag. I return home to lick fruit and frosting residue from my fingers, hungrily eating on the living room floor, eating like a refugee, eating like someone who is finally free. (And missing my brother, my light, logan.)
The noon-time light is a fist battering at me, wrapped in snatches of bluebird sky. This is not the endless, Persian blue of my Arizona, but a subtle, gentler blue, one that promises colder weather and flirting with snowflakes on the sidewalk and streets below. I wring out the restlessness in my muscles by dancing to ‘eighties music in between searching and calling for employment. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not working sixty hours a week and hatching schemes. My restlessness writes a last will and testament because my hope has larger teeth. One will soon murder the other.
This hope for a job burns my hands and breasts; at night, I gnash my teeth and kick away the covers. My pockets collect receipts, expensive lipsticks, and pieces of the sky I’ve snatched for myself. I consider doing a barefooted dance for a job and realise I no longer know where the grassy areas are. I must change this. What then, am I, if I am not a daughter and tale-spinner born of change?
Nondescript, your Jane Doe
The noon-time light is a fist battering at me, wrapped in snatches of bluebird sky. This is not the endless, Persian blue of my Arizona, but a subtle, gentler blue, one that promises colder weather and flirting with snowflakes on the sidewalk and streets below. I wring out the restlessness in my muscles by dancing to ‘eighties music in between searching and calling for employment. I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not working sixty hours a week and hatching schemes. My restlessness writes a last will and testament because my hope has larger teeth. One will soon murder the other.
This hope for a job burns my hands and breasts; at night, I gnash my teeth and kick away the covers. My pockets collect receipts, expensive lipsticks, and pieces of the sky I’ve snatched for myself. I consider doing a barefooted dance for a job and realise I no longer know where the grassy areas are. I must change this. What then, am I, if I am not a daughter and tale-spinner born of change?
Nondescript, your Jane Doe