—-“Is it her singing that enchants us or is it not rather the solemn stillness enclosing her frail little voice?” -Franz Kafka
I know the place he visits…those melodies. Songs like children that make sure you never forget your heart.
I’ve tangled with them, led others to wrestle with them…let them run lose in streets…bare… with lovers and lost loves, even ones who harm you as they love you so deep that it seems you bleed internally.
For them. You do.
This I know…
Once a song enters you, you’re not responsible for the havoc or desire it creates.
I watch old themes take him.
Not down, not up, but into the sphere the singer knows and she knows this only when she’s singing.
She is Josephine? Amália? Their children?
Yes, but no.
They’re in all of us who have touched hearts…ran with them and away from them.
That’s the closest of times… when we’re all singers, runners, damned lovers.
Lucky to have so much damned heart, unrequited to the point of passion…
Then compassion. The heart’s last look at itself.
That child. That melody.
She sets a folded towel upon cool sheets, her ass makes a depression on the mattress.
Silence is never a full-proof method of understanding each other, even if hands are involved.
They touch, then they talk. Talking is never a full-proof method of…
His leg dangles off her bed. She gets up, opens the closet door.
There’s a mirror attached to the back of the closet door. She sees my reflection and doesn’t know it’s her. She touches the mirror, thinking, as she always has, that it will lead somewhere.
She leaves fingerprints.
Branches, once a small bridge, lie over missing mud, lose their original meaning. Now, a hard turf sits like a soft concrete, an uneven glaze dried upon them.
The branches are caked, bricks in dirt, an ancient architecture.
I see the trail, in its post-primal state, its age, its meanings, wrinkles in dryness, a rough, hardened dialect.
The early heat plays tricks on the forest, taunts, beats, punishes.
Shadows crawl among dirt and wind, forming in the beams of sunlight, lose themselves, traveling the ripples. I was told never trust a shadow.
Beetles, desperate, walk across the refracting dirt, risk crossing daylight, hoping shadows will fool the birds.
A slug, not so lucky, small glob of goo, stuck ’til the sun takes all.
Trilliums, sluggish, darkened, carry a glint of hope. Their petals a fragile strength.
Nothing but the wind hints at moisture, A jet’s noise pierces the leaves’ puzzle.
And looking up, I lose the trail, falling, letting the camera fly,
then a cramp, my leg won’t move. All movement slowed.
I hear the skid of the camera, see the dry dirt on my knee, palms, elbows.
A cooling sweat enwraps me, dries quickly, my arms like branches, caked, with an uneven glaze.
Lying face up on the trail, like a beetle, a slug, a trillium, a shadow.
I look at the shades of green, of the trees above me, uncommon are the browns and yellows, so early.
Two walking by me, either from here or nowhere, lovers perhaps, offer no assistance…that’s when I know I’m a shadow, a slug, a beetle.
She walks by, wearing only a rust-colored dress, barefoot. Gives me a handkerchief, a sip of water, she does not smile.
That’s when I know I’m human. My leg begins to move.
I move with the ripple, my skin past dust, still arid in the act of movement.
The bare wind hurries us into each other.