TN
The cicadas sang to me from the tracks, from the yawning station deck, from up underneath the awning. My skin responded as it was want on afternoons like these, and sweat slickened the hollows of my ears and neck, running curious blind fingers through my unwashed hair. Down in Macondo, I could hear the boom and crash of church bells. The reverberations took moments to react against the fine hairs of my body and each little crest and breaking was like a hand pushing me away.
It was, three months later, time to leave.
What I brought and what I took had a tendency to vary but never exceed the backcountry pack and compact hardtop. There were usually poems and boots, letters and books, photos and lists of all the places I had yet to see. I kept some of Tennessee’s postcards in my pack, the rest in my shirtfront pocket, buttoned closed. Mum was present on my wrist were she had wrapped a woven band with some of her hair. I kept my father’s utility knife looped to my smooth brown leather belt.
There were pieces of people tied up all over me, if you knew how to go about looking for them.
Since the Ecuadorian underwater aquarium, I had the bad habit of looking for Tennessee everywhere. A niggling feeling persisted somewhere in the region of my upper spinal column. My last sight of her would not include the shadow of a sea urchin, distorted and sickly, dividing her face like a fissure.
It was, three months later, time to leave.
What I brought and what I took had a tendency to vary but never exceed the backcountry pack and compact hardtop. There were usually poems and boots, letters and books, photos and lists of all the places I had yet to see. I kept some of Tennessee’s postcards in my pack, the rest in my shirtfront pocket, buttoned closed. Mum was present on my wrist were she had wrapped a woven band with some of her hair. I kept my father’s utility knife looped to my smooth brown leather belt.
There were pieces of people tied up all over me, if you knew how to go about looking for them.
Since the Ecuadorian underwater aquarium, I had the bad habit of looking for Tennessee everywhere. A niggling feeling persisted somewhere in the region of my upper spinal column. My last sight of her would not include the shadow of a sea urchin, distorted and sickly, dividing her face like a fissure.
The planned-ness of that encounter counteracted its surreal qualities, and if it seemed that my life cleaved to fantastical literature too much, then fault was not wholly mine. Because Tennessee did then appear, white-shirted and short of breath.
To the right of me, the platform.
To the right of me, the platform.
No comments:
Post a Comment