Stained Glass Window
I think what is perhaps most powerful
Is that one single thing
Can instantly make you think of a certain person
And this memory will stick with you forever.
It doesn’t even matter how much
Time has passed.
It could be a few months,
Or decades later.
You’ll be in the car,
And a song will come on the radio
Or you’ll be on a date with someone new,
Watching a scene in a movie.
You’ll hear the sound of ocean waves,
Feel the breeze of a cool summer morning,
Or pass a stranger in a bookstore
And your mind will transport back
To a specific moment of the past,
A time signified by the presence
Of that one person,
And all the emotions you’ve kept bottled up inside
Will nestle beside your heart again,
Illuminating the images of a story
Embedded deep within your soul.
Let’s rob the bank
Watch the cameras, they are everywhere.
Be mindful of our hostages, keep them in check.
Don’t shoot the damn teller.
Be patient with the vault, it will take time.
Listen for sirens.
Listen for anything.
Please don’t shoot my goddamn teller.
Make sure you have all the money, every dollar.
Now go buy yourself something nice.
And close the vault on your way out.
Fresh plant breeze Not quite, it’s too early Water
From melting ice and snow
Hit my pupils
A yellow filter
Birds, bees, bugs, my thoughts
My inner music
Hug of the breeze
Not a punch
Lighter, easier steps
Corners of mouths
Less resistant lungs
Salt on my fingertips
Life is a movie
Instead of reality
The emotional zenith
The seasonal convalescence The vernal equinox
It is sweet and supple and i love to write, i hate to read.
The outline of a face: the dark, cloudy eyes connected to thin lines of brows, sloping down into the triangle noses.
People have these faces, you see, they wear their circles of blush and crooked teeth like gravestones every day. Pillows of pink lips and ears that protrude from their heads like tumors. Freckles that stab into foreheads and leave them
to bleed. Thick hair raised from dry scalps. Faces that tell stories and hear sounds. Love and bleed and dance. It’s incredible—lips that hum and noses that run. Eyes that blink, blink until the tears come out or the sleep overtakes them. Brows that raise and lower like curtains to a play you sat through when you were ten. Cheeks that blush and become apples. Brains that think and don’t.
I drew out my letter in a thick ink. An ink so thick that you could feel my mission pouring out of me. The letters came out in a rampage of cursive, every “i” dotted and every “t” crossed at astonishing speed. His train left at midnight.
I had to write faster. And as I did, I could remember every small insignificant detail about our past, but couldn’t seem to remember the important moments. I remember the way my hands clutched the side of my blue floral skirt that night in the kitchen. His hair was a mess, work shirt unbuttoned at the collar, crimson red tie loosened and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. If a neighbor were to have walked by our window that warm summer evening, they would have thought he was an alcoholic. He was nothing of the sort. He was lost in his work.
My room is dimly lit with two candles. One next to me and my paper and the other on the mantle of the bedroom fireplace behind me. I like to write in front of my dresser mirror because it is only in moments like these where I look up and find a vulnerable visage staring back.
A small tear runs steadily from my eye. It is stained black from the makeup I paint myself with. I wear my dark red velvet gown. I don’t have plans tonight. But I sit perfectly straight on my cushioned dressing chair as if I were the Queen of England herself.