If for every word I lay down, someone else throws two soda pop tops up in the air where they glisten, false metal hard in the sun; and the crowd says oooh.
If somewhere a hand snaps a cloth around the mouth, tightens a blindfold, tucks the glistening, form-fitting spandex around the body, checks the buckles of its expensive shoes.
If the moth trembles in the eaves, it is for every story lived that someone else appropriates: reconstitutes with plastic, fiberfill; turns into amuse-bouches.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Memory: A Tonic
- Orality: Little Treatise
- Dearest one, I am Prince Ashily Quatama
- Every Death
- There are words and there are words:
- Little Voyage
- Atlantis Rising
- In the Ablative
- The wren in the lilac cycles through its songs at breakneck speed—
- If the future is a bird headed for a summit too far away to tell:
- Tending Fire