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Emily Strauss
Page 2
Burial Ground Hot smoke lingers over the burial ground of slashed trees, remnants of a pioneer orchard past its prime, trunks gnarled, low branches leaning down seeds dropping into thistles
the smoke rises in a white curtain against the dark rain storm over the flat hay land yellow in fall, white ash piled like dirty sand after a flood
ghosts outlined on the horizon memories of shade through the leaves, the faint smell of almonds rising.
The Weight of Regrets weightless beings really, lighter than birds drawn to the up-currents along the sea cliffs, they should fly too like white gulls, terns or kites white reflecting off the sun turning them invisible in the hot air, the heart- beat so faint in the tiny breasts they are almost lifeless— so a sparrow of regret would disappear against the pines and firs in the clefts rising from the blue surf as they fly toward evening's shadows, tiny among the branches that begin seventy feet up, visible only as a flutter of wings for a moment.
Singular I might forget momentarily— until a door opens and closes in a quiet room then the scene will repeat endlessly he entering tall and thin diffident with that fleeting smile and I should wait for those hands forever the scene will loop around the capstan of my mind tail of the film slapping hard against my memory as it spins endlessly until I silence it— pain neither here nor there— I am singular.
© Copyright, 2015, Emily
Strauss. |