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Literature Text
At one point I remember your fear got so bad
you tried pressing yourself into this tree,
a Japanese maple I bought at an antique fair,
potted in a sack, the wood around it hugely old.
Its leaves were green and small, but then, summer—
I told you not to climb it until you got older,
or until you understood age, like the red leaves.
You did until your toes almost grafted,
almost began to drink the wood’s water,
and the leaves sipped the red in you.
Your skin yielded to the bark.
Your hair matted with leaves, tangled
so I unknotted them, telling the straight smooth hair
“Your best roots are your fingers,” they’re worked to the bone,
and strong. Instead, though, you use them
to lunge with at the clouds.
you tried pressing yourself into this tree,
a Japanese maple I bought at an antique fair,
potted in a sack, the wood around it hugely old.
Its leaves were green and small, but then, summer—
I told you not to climb it until you got older,
or until you understood age, like the red leaves.
You did until your toes almost grafted,
almost began to drink the wood’s water,
and the leaves sipped the red in you.
Your skin yielded to the bark.
Your hair matted with leaves, tangled
so I unknotted them, telling the straight smooth hair
“Your best roots are your fingers,” they’re worked to the bone,
and strong. Instead, though, you use them
to lunge with at the clouds.
Literature
your hair, that night
Didn't feel like a needle, even.
Felt like cotton, it
felt like lucky rabbit's foot tucked into my pocket
in case I got nervous or
too jittery.
-Smelled clean and I remember
how it looked- a shining majesty in the
rays of an artificial bulb, refracting off
of a mirror, reflecting your fingers on
a guitar, gentle and constant.
Literature
The Berliner
Sick of writing about the pianist,
she leaves for Berlin and makes her
home next to the absence of a wall
She contemplates the American Embassy
and changes her cigarette brand
She sets out walking
and considers percentages of lives,
eats alone, begins to consider meat as flesh,
removes paintings from their frames
and in their place hangs mirrors
Calling home small voiced
she asks after family and friends
politely, washing dishes as she does so,
the phone in the crook of her neck
She makes no friends, does not make love,
resents nothing and leaves no
holes in people's lives
Literature
an augury of tears
your love is the wind
on water. mine heaves deeper
than cruel riptide.
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heavy revision. i had no idea what tree i was talking about. plus... stuff. thoughts?
© 2008 - 2024 ruffienne
Comments24
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Superb, rather.