If he could, this man would lecture me kindly on what I do not know and on what I know better than he. There is little that progress cannot teach us, he’d intone. Women are a certain thing, a certain way. His spectacles, small and wire, reveal my liberation, in which he partway believes.
What he does not see: the discoloration of his face framed with purple, then blue burst of chemical flower. His eyes untouched and shining from the center, beard trimmed but feral. The humanity in him stitched from something wild.
From his jacket an object emerges, a blankness or a book. It’s his auricle pulsing forth, the book he has written, the one that contains all the rules of his life and the love who was lost down river. She had never learned to swim, or swam too well.
What he does not see: the discoloration of his face framed with purple, then blue burst of chemical flower. His eyes untouched and shining from the center, beard trimmed but feral. The humanity in him stitched from something wild.
From his jacket an object emerges, a blankness or a book. It’s his auricle pulsing forth, the book he has written, the one that contains all the rules of his life and the love who was lost down river. She had never learned to swim, or swam too well.
No comments:
Post a Comment