It has been hard to let go. Difficult to process and seemingly impossible to grasp. I was holding on to those caricatures of old. Layers of lifetimes revealing the sluggish evolution of reluctance.
The figures stood stoic, leaning in too close, backing up, shouting,
whatever they needed to do to hold tight my attention,
my concern.
It became clear that the barn with the sacred window yet lived within me, candles burning in a circle round, and so many people in exquisite colors, goats bleating in the background, blackberries growing sharp and moonlit against a horizon of dusk.
She was in the meadow. I would someday be her.
Such places were served to me—gifts given as if in apology for the violence of the ownerships,
avoidance between family, and way too many
secrets.
Trying to make up for the discretions shattered and agonies repeated because they were the only way the kindred torrent knew how to
breathe.
In: defense. Out: offense. Over and over. Circular and exhausting.
But when they saw what they had created, it was too late to turn back.
A tree with infested roots part-way uprooted.
Could they make up for the displacement with money? With time? With compliments?
No.
She ran into the forest green and soon the men trailed behind, standing on the sidelines.
Waiting hungrily.
Upon.
The Velcro lady, ready for the hooks. Dreading those beasts as much as
she did the fairy on the bomb.
Dream world begets dream world and just like the merpeoples’ fungi mouths crumble, figures fade into the sand above which our stories sink. Meanwhile, soilent battles holler across the vacant valley.
Striking down with derision and might.
Me.
and my
Peach nightgown.
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