And the ice clinks, and the nice
things do not
stay nice like
they did
in daylight. How sinister
when fear of regret
morphs into a cancerous
secret told only when countless
other whispers and
foggy
memories are aggregated
and branded with a
hashtag. Hours are
a
droning
melody. Generations whisked
away like flowers beyond the car
window, and ours is a
mutant heredity. Surely
skirts are not a modern
invention, yet we stare:
at mannequins, at clearance racks, at magazines, at little dolls,
at little dolls. Surely there
were bodies before, alive and circulating
blood just the same, surely the infinity
of existence brightens our eyes and
darkens
our hearts as ever, but the lowered water
levels and rising salinity remind our blood
cells to multiply. We
stare
and
salivate, determined not to
be starved of curvaceous beauty swaying
and battling fabric. How I resent
my need for that
vicinity. We stare, and I
stare, and elementary
statistics call, text, and/or
e-mail the mind transfixed
by the serenity of
motion. Out of office, returning Tuesday, direct anything
urgent to the sparrows perched on my ribs. Meanwhile, I
stare, and a glimpse
of skin kicks open
the door to insanity.
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