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Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Untitled (Seamstress)

I am not sure how you appeared in my life but I ask for you to leave it. I am not strong. I am not one for subtle battles. Light shines on me here and I cherish the time I spend without shadow. You stroke the back of my heart with your fingers, I hear your steps in the front hall. Don't strike me. Today, in the kitchen, a bird sat in the window and chirped for me. I would warrant that this was his first performance without an audience, he was clearly nervous. I clapped sudsy hands and the plates shined their approval. He flew, away. My eyes trailed him until i could no longer. Suddenly, swiftly, you were at my neck. Pawing, breathing. I saw no colors, heard no music. The bird was gone. I am gone. I let my bones be crushed to dust and sprinkle it on the mantle and china cabinet. It gives me something to do; idle hands are the devils workshop. I heard once that it's common knowledge to fear the weak en masse, for they are then made strong. As opposed to the strong working together, since their conflicting strengths and natures weaken. When I bow my head on my knees each night I pray this is true, my speech timed out to the cadence of your breathing. I pray I am a force, for I send out a plea to multitudes.

1 comment:

  1. Lots of great lines. So sad, the parts about the bird and dust and purpose and ephemera.

    You delve, which is great.