arcadian
“A sense of calm came over me. More and more often I found myself thinking, ‘This is where I belong. This is what I came into this world to do.’”
I’m sitting under a canopy of wood and Moroccan lanterns made of clay and cloth. A small boy carrying a tray of sugar powdered cakes offers me with his eyes, s'il vous plait! It’s not a question. The doughy dessert will not go well with my wine, so I decant and smile, turning my head to one side. The water looks like the inside of a shoe. Contained and pearlescent. Who wears such decorous foot ware! Only the goddess and I’ve no patience for loafers that stink. If Chinnamasta dined here, she would cut everything but her own head. I’ve been parched for a glass of rose for weeks—(it’s been two days). Time is thick with my passion and impatience! What I want is never close at hand. Never permanent! The lanky cats prowling beneath the tables understand my angst. It’s universal. It’s normal. It’s beset by the imagination and a tool to transcend. It’s why cats climb the trees. To ascend this reality into another. They get stuck and don’t want to be rescued. Always and forever. Isn’t that the promise we ask of love? I mark the pathway home by the blue doors. It is the color of my abortion and also the road home. I know where I live by the cerulean blue tiles. I walk barefoot. A small kitten crawls alongside my shins, rubbing my leg with its gold and white fur. One eye weeps—the right side for Ida. I lick the cat up and carry it in one palm. It burrows its nose at my wrist and blinks at me, wink-wink-wink. My spirit weeps with Ida. Day 151. The cat is small and starving, like all the hearts placed upon the counter. When we arrive at the long wooden staircase, the kitten slithers down my torso and darts under one long yellow skirt: turmeric and ambrosia. The woman speaks Arabic and cannot understand my pleas for a bed partner. I unlock the door alone.
Photo source.
