Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Black Seas

Regression happens with age, bodies morph into sharp, geometric renditions of flesh with insipid harsh angles. Her face engulfed by the caverns her sockets make, muddied pools empty and still with no flickering fire cast about the walls. The skin stretched over her face looks waxy and I beckon the notion to call Madame Tussaud, but this woman lacks singular importance in the world, one old leaf ready to be blown about and put back to the earth. No accolades for her bravery. I sit here in the dark watching her breath hover, the vapor shaped in the image of Gabriel, and I let the room escape me. Her collarbone creates a valley that could hold the Black Sea, her mind lost somewhere between youth and release, and I want to touch the sweat collecting there. Her salted life seeping up from her center as if a spring of ground water. My fingers reach out silently as she opens her eyes in one, small moment of lucidity to ask me, “Am I still alive?” Her face alight in that second showing me the heartbreak of lovers, meals cooked, children swaddled, and presents given with knowing. “Yes,” I tell her, “yes.”
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Heroin Love Songs 11/08

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