(About) the Truth
The truth can be hard to put a finger on. Like
a trigger. Only not like pulling the trigger, because
everyone knows the reader will get the last
word.
Not the girl.
Category: pick 52
(About) the Photograph
The photograph will grow on you. Slowly at
first, then blossom in the dead of Winter like a
Jade. One day, you’ll realize the photograph
has been studying you. Watching you come
and go. Knitting as you wash dishes.
Rearranging blankets on the couch. Idling.
Yesterday, it followed you outside. To the
edge of the fire.
The photograph is never distracted by
heroines, however old-fashioned, ill-fated or
shrewd. It is content to watch you read.
It would be nice if the photo would stop.
Maybe a restraining order. But to what end?
The photograph swallowed you long ago, along
with a thousand words.
(About) the Reader
The reader knows everything about the
heroine. When not reading or within earshot
of other readers, the reader refers to
the heroine’s favorite songs, foods and
movies as if they were the reader’s own. As if
the heroine stepped out of line to dodge a
bullet and the reader closed the gap.
The reader comes from a long line of listeners
who took up reading when words became
flesh. For this reason, there are days the
reader goes without reading. Or sleep.
Sometimes, the reader imagines the heroine
staring back across the fire.
(About) the Heroine
Every book needs a heroine. The chapters of
history would yellow and crack without them.
Western border towns would shiver in their
river bottoms and not know why. Eastern
skies would empty their pockets of blue.
Librarians believe in heroines. They know why
heroines catching your stare, stare right back
and invite you in. Dreams are more memorable
with heroines. As are laundry rooms, Bimini tops
and just around the corner.
Heroines have vices. Seductive charms.
Whiskey. Many of them wear shirts with
snaps and familiar patterns. They are not
afraid to cry uncontrollably in the middle of
dinner. With or without wasabi.
Return
ii.
The gift I meant to send
to you,
I opened.
Because you
are never coming back.
Even now
you are slipping through
the shadows. Like
a thousand
hexagons, you turn
divide and turn,
divide and
turn.
Remember
the harvest honeycombs?
…the end-of-Summer sweet?
You are never
coming back.
The gift I meant to send.
I opened.
Return
i.
Darkest dawn of
even
darker night.
Spanning wings
of angels caught
mid-flight.
Sprinkle dust
of bones from those
who leap–
Prayer blankets
now, for
secrets
held too deep.
Spellbound by trees
we walk
on
riverbed below
No separation left, no
effort keeping
earthy mold
from promised
light.
Only faces.
Warmed by
memory
of you,
the
kindling
of life.