undoing and being the
mistress of my own undoing, a tie that un-binds, what does that mean? i sniffle
myself awake, my room is filled with pollen from having left the trapdoor open
in the night, where someone snuck in and unraveled something.
a glutton for
contraband correspondence, i dispatch a small rebel-band of words, tiptoe,
mousetrack, prayer-flags waving, something sweet and swollen with mischief,
inching its way under the fence. pick-pocketed; a parley in the garden.
exposition of our brewing coalescence.
how about i'll
smuggle something and you smuggle something, and we'll trade.
jars and jars of
stolen flowers, i keep coming across. sailing my little boat down the channel
between our windows, the blocks that keep us wondering. so far i've only been
collecting Devil's Paintbrush,
alias: (ORIGIN late
Middle English : from Latin, ‘at another time, otherwise.’) Butterfly Weed,
Chiggerflower, Fluxroot, Paintbrush, Posy, Orange Milkweed, Yellow Milkweed,
Swallow-wort, Windroot--
so far also the
memory of lilac. so far a chigger is a tiny mite
who lives on or under the skin of a warm-blooded animal.
so far always lilac for how it stirs up the middle of something, aching of
innocence, abandon. how do you recall a smell?
scent-memory of
flowers, a most important kind of memory. probably symbolic of dangling.
re-collecting the scent of a someone, or a season you misplaced so many years
back: leaf pile, bruised apple on the
floor of the orchard. sharp way the sun smells in late october, a wooly elbow
smell, a crisping between branches and their long shadows, looming taller as
the sun dips down into four o'clock mountains. against twilight, the mountains
turn purple. smell a cold starburst. last leaf smitten to its tree in a brilliance
of crimson, preparing to fall.
i have a problem.
i'm pretty sure i was
an animal in my most recent life. i'm not sure how to be in this one. big eyes
filled with new blue moon or water, my blood swimming, ceaseless migration. my
delicate drape of veins a netting, a webbing, a cradle. my clear heart hot, a
bell jar for a lightening bolt.
here's the thing:
exposition |ekspə'zi sh ən|
noun
music. the part of a movement,
especially in a sonata, in which the principal themes are first presented.
the title of my musical seems to be reasons for reaching or, trying
not to get carried away, or i have a problem. here's the thing: when
you look at me i see water, lapping at a dock, or a canoe, or a blueberry bush.
been around forever. i'm trying not to see things i'm not supposed to. i'm
trying not to imagine too far under, but the set smells familiar, can't help
it. i hide a sneak of honeysuckle. i'm tiptoe, magpie. something under the
skin. pirate on a life-boat, castaway extra. before i go, step into the light.
tell me your name again, like we only just met.
stand up straight, and let me get a look at you.
sonata |sə'nätə|
noun
a
classical composition for an instrumental soloist.
.
