BANG OUT

aftershock 1

here we are again. i am lying still & breathless under packing blankets in the tent, the earth curving up against my back in lazy corrugation. you, you are ground-fitted & limp, hourglass hints tailored to sand like a body built for gravity. your breath is shallow; sleep rolled out hot & even onto the fork of my jaw. i do not turn to look at you in this dream, do not paddle against your current, do not dust your scales with the colic of my own fear in hopes that you will pull the lure from my lip. no, in this dream i hover wide-eyed in the dark & do not tip the scale. your knees are knocking invitations & the canvas eaves of the tent bend inward as i expand.

aftershock 2

here we are again. i am holding seaglass to my eyelids, the tidepool in damp sepia behind us. you, you are boney wetland moonrocks cloistered tightly to the ground as if gravity were quitting. your feet are hoofed; dark cartoon propellers shuffle, not made for water landings. i do not turn the page in this dream, do not open my eyes to the ceiling, cannot find the glove box in which your folds should try to fit. no, in this dream, i am cixious’ donkey & our numbers will never intersect. your bed goes unmade & the heat of the windows bakes earth into the seams of my knuckles.

aftershock 3

here we are again. i am striking rocks against each other like a wind-up monkey, the sparks making pupils snap. you, you are wind-chilled & gustoed, crouched low against the sand holding both ends of my wick ready & still. your nose is dripping; small marbles perspire, sliding down the incline to pool in the divot of your top lip. i do not pull the bark from your belly in this dream, cannot find corners to fill with kindling, do not rub rope against the birthmark of your upbringing in hopes of sending up smoke. no, in this dream our bodies cower against the cold & i do not notice the flare when elbows collide. your flint is well-bedded & my strokes char tallies down the wrinkled face of the cliff.

Copyright © 2009, Meg Day