There is in love two strange perfections. In
The Stranger, mother
was already dead, and so perfect as the plot's origin. I don't
remember the rest. Odd that it's American teens'
first French
novel; confront your
existence in simple sentences. Verb forms are
like lost wax, time impressed in the hollow of a phrase. An
orange cone sits in the
middle of an enormous puddle. That draws our eyes. There
are two mothers to each of
my children,
a plaintive arithmetic. I thank them for our sums. Our
algebra is not linear, but punctuated; verbs cross paths in costume.
Even
after she hurdled over the railing of the ninth floor parking
structure, she looked happy
on Instagram. Left
gifts for her family on the
roof, chocolates and an iPod.
The one
question Camus asked, my teacher said, regarded
suicide. He opted for mystery, being's extension. Hair pieces more
perfect than the real, thicker and more curly. The
last photo was of a city park, drenched by street lamps. From
a wooden bench, another woman takes the photograph.
Mother's
Day
--10 May 2015
3 comments:
I love Confront your existence in simple sentences, & into the next sentence. I'm not sure why 2 mothers per child is a plaintive arithmetic; it seems to me to be plentiful, though if you talk about the distance as you draw the lines from each child to other mother, that is both plaintive and creates a plane, doesn't it?
Suicidal mother's day poem: but of course! I love how this unfolds both as sad and (oddly) as triumphant. "two strange perfections": indeed. Why is it that leaving chocolates feels haunting, and leaving an iPod feels frivolous? It must be my regard for chocolate versus electronics. Good one, S.
I don't know, I find the gifts very moving. Though the iPod seems to replicate the instagram bit, the instant photo that becomes a last testament. A lovely photo it was, too.
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