Tuesday, March 18, 2014

hum of what we sling

When you thought you were alone, you were not. Even when the ocean pulled back your footprints as fast as skin could fill them. Even when you came home from work and fell across the bed, coat still on, crying without sound and the silence of that made your tears fall hotter, faster.

I say this to myself on days when the sky is so blue that it is cartoon. Like today. I lean on the window at work for minutes at a time, palm cooled by the pane as my stomach plays acrobat and my mind tumble dries the what-ifs, the have-nots. The roses on my desk smell delicious. Today I drank pineapple juice until the roof of my mouth started to itch. All I want is all the fruit in the world.

When the lonelies are too much I think of all of us, flailing in our own quiet, unsure what to do with our hands or mouths or talents. I think of the odd things that might make me sad--a mechanical pencil out of lead, the bare flint of empty lighter, the credits on a movie I wasn't ready for. An older man hunched and caught in bad weather, the day sucking me in and sucking me out like a bank teller's tube, like I'm not really anywhere just traveling between points on a map. The echoed sound in my chest, my grandmother singing under her breath as she creates breakfast. She used to pour an extra bowl of Rice Krispies for me just so I could hear them speak--my own bowl always dry. Where are your little things?

I thought by adulthood my mind would align itself to some mainstream mold, an acceptable chronological ballet of rational and purpose. I assumed lost was a thing of youth for the longest time, naive to the marks growth will leave, to the coiling we do around that which is still as we climb.

Sometimes honey my heart swings at my knees. During others I might fashion slipknot, lasso her in spinning blur above my head. She goes so fast before she's flung; she hums.

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