the sticks are placed
just so. she turns to
the exact page, adjusts
the heat, remembers her
ancient mind bubbling.
pictures emerge. from
vowels. specific O’s
of openings. howlings.
consonants retreat.
crucifixion absorbs.
forgiveness forgets.
the cave ranges into
ravines green with greed,
longing. she punches 3
holes into her notebook
complete with recipes and
knocking. in one corner—
the farthest—she collects
all the uniforms she has
known—those worn and un
worn—and begins to worry:
the boring stuff first,
then the idling. above
the dark rim of red
bowling, she adjusts the
ladle. for scooping.
the heat rises like
the rings of Saturn. you
can see them parsing
the consonants of truth,
the one howl of night,
the dark brown breath of
O. it pinches pain—
the heat. yields hope. fails
desire, an aching hunt
to linger. where pine forests
dress her sapphire memory.
test her coasted love. stir
the sticks. she waits. for
the blueprint. the one
who sings on the 25th floor
swaying. he wanders into
the cooking—a snakecrawlsteam
departed before birth,
thus fixing her longing,
his nerve. along the coastal
front—the wide highway—
ten pine trees shade their
fixation. he longs to speak.
you must try to save us. he says
no. she says.
not that only.
not this time.
oh. he says.
the waves beat out
their vowels. this language
of heat, despair, intrusion.
wherever they are not. are.
do not feel sorry for them.
please feel sorry for them.
those two curling under
liquid masks hitched
to skyscrapers and trees.
when steam enters her vowels
off the cave floor,
he inscribes his ruby
replete with forgiving.
she desires to speak,
her breath fluttering deep
in that deep green snake, glowing,
permanently removing the boundary
from her desire
to this voice rising. O
waves curling
Originally published in Guillinna on Four Wheels by Sandra Squire Fluck. Available on Apple Books and Amazon Kindle.
