My improv probably makes way more sense to me than it does to anyone else. I should preface it by saying I have a bit of an obsession with headless female statues. That might help a bit?
Miniature
The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands
begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
made for a child’s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite
is buried in the old armchair. He doesn’t look at her.
He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup’s handle. The clock
holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It’s too late now. Let’s drink our tea.
Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage?
To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain,
with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?
______
The figurine slouched over toward her friend. Her melted hands
fuse to the cemented curve of her thigh
like mittens sewn into pockets
for safe keeping. Her fired friend, bent oppositely,
is drilled in the bottom of her dress. She doesn’t look at her.
She twists toward the heat. Her shoulders rest at a disco-dancers angle,
captured shine against her gutted throat and the elbows curve. The kiln
rains heat like the prick of rough cat tongue against their mutilation. Something has cracked.
The moisture has gone. It’s too slender. Let’s nurse our necks.
Is it possible, then, for claim to be voiced in this sort of state?
Will they pass by, ownership cast to the missing? And only these figures to remain,
with sloped shoulders cradling an exhausted spine,
resting upon hollowed dresses,
their screaming skulls at their feet?
No comments:
Post a Comment