I stumbled upon her, hidden behind a large sliding door, within the comfort of darkness, unmoved, silent.
Is that possible? She seemed so old, so incredibly old, as if one touch would turn her into dust.
And dust was inside, so much earthly powder rising, floating. I fanned it away, swiping three times. Breathless, I dared to look deeper.
For I knew this was a dust that could bite, its fangs lay into your skin so softly, you think you only have an itch, then a blinding light loosens upon you, never dimming.
I waited for the storm to settle and found her glimmer. She was naked, naked silver, like a dissected serpent, a flute, an instrument of sound, not chatter, dormant.
I’ve had enough of the latter to last all my lifetimes, but her body held certain tones of gravitation, melodies of singularity, connecting my emotion with thought, bunching up within me, squirming in my gut, rattling amongst my speculations.
My ears, I blamed for all confused utterances, yet I loved them, for they alone had the ability to divvy up beauty from all noise competing for my attention.
And now I had found her, mute, unmoved, and now my fingers brushed against the pitting of silver plate, the gilding of argent, rough greenish, blackish pits within metal and marks of ancient lips imprinted upon her embouchure.
A sound was made, shaped, guided, the union of a kiss. My lips wetted, my body moist, until they came following the sound.
And they smiled as if they loved me, stood in admiration, ready to woo me to the sound not the harmony.
She was just metal, wasn’t she? Who could love someone based upon a sound? It was not me, I swear. She developed warmth upon a touch and it was that heat they heard.
She dropped from my lips, the branches of my soul, back into the dusty dark, where I swear I loved her more than any, until another pair of ruby stained lips would press upon her neck.
Someone will jump back into that grave, looking for the flowers of her melody.
|David Koblentz on Wand|
|Alyson Hinkie on Wand|
|Elan Mudrow on The Small River|
|Ali Grimshaw on The Small River|
|PATRICK STORIES on No Dreaming Required|