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Mr. In, is there really no other way?
can a canvas not, at base, at heart be that wall across from that glass lamp; glares emanating from the forbidding rule of touch. Must you come in with your bleach and cloth on bended knee, on a dozen pills for that line on your forehead and curse wax for its sticking and color for never staying put. The child, small, cannot reach The place where you’ve locked their crayons away; You believe the key gift enough You’ve never believed in pineapple clouds. Trigger warning: words relating to violence and death. Alludes to homelessness, Palestine genocide, mental illness, and the state of this country.
the sinking feeling my my chest informs me that we are doomed bright lights smart phones happy pills just turn it off i can’t go outside pay your bills that pregnant girl doesn’t look older than 15 don’t look the streets are crowded cars rush in urgency it is Sunday i know you looked at me you didn’t stop do you see anything? I know this church well. The Walters, our family friends that are faithful church goers,
would drag me here after every sleepover. Us kids would run up and down the aisles when the service finally ended; stealing the pastor’s keys and army crawling under the pews to keep them from him. I’m crammed into those same pews now, the cushions on them are a gross mossy green and the thick air smells like fading incense and Chanel No. 5. It’s not the old, ornate, celestial kind of church. I think it was built in the 70s and hasn’t been touched since. The organ strikes a heavy chord and we all instinctively rise. I tell myself so aggressively not to lock my knees that I wonder if I’ve whispered it aloud. My stomach knots and my heart speeds up. If I lock my knees, I know I’ll faint, or maybe I’ll throw up. The vomit would blend right into these ugly green pews. What a comfort. A pale blue belt, golden luminescence
Where the lily wilts. Entangled with the vines beneath the surface, Divine gift to Gaia. The della robbia child. The watcher observes, |