Saturday, May 23, 2015

82




But there are a sort of Saints meet to be your companions...but that they be concealed. My desire to unseal them makes me sleepy. The eyelid is a drive-in, my body the car into which an old cord winds. Keep windows open to receive the dented sound. I'm down to words, the ones that float like feathers after bird-storms. A small bundle of curly hair in the bathroom means my husband cut his hair. Phone call means a colleague died. After long sickness, a sudden fall. I pick up the taut curls, deposit them in the trash. I put the phone down, scratch a kitten, try to summon his voice.

--23 May 2015

2 comments:

Karen Skolfield said...

Oh, the juxtaposition of the husband's freshly cut hair and the colleague who's died/trying to remember the voice - so good. Penis-shaped noses & green men leads me astray. Remember to keep your Safe Search on, I guess. ;)

Janet said...

Sad, & yes, the juxtaposition of Bryant's hair & the colleague's fall is just really touching (that's when you need a kitten, of course). Most of the connections are great but why does a cord lead into a car?