“In the near future
Petrogenic tubes will allow us
To map each other’s hearts
And not in the sense of
Pulse, pressure, or saturation;
We will be able to translate “I forgot”
Into everything that was unsaid
And tease the edges of communion
Wrapping into ourselves.”
“You should have just returned my calls.
It’s a basic signalling game –
But this may be my favourite
Of all your fragile lies.”
“No, I don’t believe in our having been chimpanzees, or cavemen, or peasants without indoor plumbing, or the like. Don’t go calling me a creationist, though – I can see it in your face. I think the creationists have it wrong, too.
“I’ll allow for the possibility of dinosaurs and the planet being however many eons old. But I’m not going to be suckered in by the theory that our ancestors ran around for millennia without cotton underwear, Advil, or knowing to boil their water.
“You’ll see why, if you think about it. So many untreatable itches and infections would have gotten us. No black pants or clean pads – if the predators didn’t get you, the vaginosis would have. No oatmeal baths or baby-grade laundry detergent. No cranberry juice, probiotics, antibiotics, acid capsules, or surgeons to pick out stray bits of uterus.
“No. We all had to be born somehow, and there’s just no way that vaginas could have survived in the wild.”
I eat fried egg on toast
And reluctantly get dressed
I eat fried egg on toast
And sneak back into bed
I can’t be perfect every day
So I’ll be comfortable instead
Sleep slower, and maybe you’ll notice curious things. Be wary of using words like “indefinitely” – this comes with a poem:
Baby, I’ll crawl to you
across the vast mirage of time and space
should misfortune befall time itself
or the laws of physics break
It has been nearly a year since I first read the post “sleep slowly”, and the four lines of that poem still come back to me. Continue reading “Parallel Outlet: 11”
When you buried my shovel
I was left idle, unmasked and thinking
There is no glitter in my well
No gold ‘mong damp and mossy dark
Most ropes would recoil
But these linen plaits graze water
Unfrayed and still and tranquil
As the maple roof and stonework above
Anglo, Roman-Catholic stays
Build ribcages smoother than granite
And flakes of mica without replace
Ingots for those who would clamber within
Some eyes stay bright and guileless through
Trials largely of one’s own making
Rope winding, coiling back to
Where I am from
Based on the prompt “Where I’m from”:
Writing to Freedom
Summoning Magic: A Gypsy’s Tale
You are the greatest love I almost had
Sharpening vague lines
On ships passing in the night
Alone, she would be three lights ahead and going sideways between a lamppost and a garbage bin to get ahead of that slow-moving family.
Instead his arm is a leash and when she tries to hurry at the end of the walk signals his disparagement has her ashamed at scurrying out of consideration for others. Never mind personal safety, or respect for the rules of the road.
She should not be so proactive about trying to move the two of them out of the way of people’s pictures. She should not try to pull him back from a map when others are trying to look too.
This way he sees her half-assed, and cringing against her own instinct for speed, for politeness.
He isn’t there when her quick, slender ankles are flashing, her chin up and eyes scanning. Anticipating when the lights will turn. He doesn’t see her turning adroitly to get through a crowd, or skirting two girls taking pictures on the bridge, without breaking stride. Zipping down the stairs into the park.
He doesn’t know what she is like when she is walking without him.