sweven
“In art and dream may you proceed with abandon. In life may you proceed with balance and stealth.”
I’ve grown accustomed to the desert in me. Eyes, ears, nostrils, back of the tongue; I wear dust on my feet like slippers. Before the stars disappear, I place my hands on my heart and recall my dreams. Images swim up from the subconscious like croutons in soup. Mushy around the edges.
A yard is full of bags and plastic bins—confetti and streamers on the dewy grass. A trumpet calls from a balcony; its organ wears dark blue and gold rings. Long black hair shades the face, mouth pursed, pressing to the embouchure. I pace the encampment wearing glitter—a crown. I collect odd items in my hands and dispatch them in a wicker basket. A shoe, a torn book cover, a butter knife, an empty gas canister, a pair of pom-poms.
I pick through sleeping bodies as the sun rises. My therapist approaches me wearing grey. Her face is a cloud, wiped of expression. I offer her the basket, my chosen items to depart. It’s too heavy; I feel her say. I see the sky about to turn and sense grief. Losing liquid is painful, especially in the desert. My hands hurt. My feet singe with every step. Ponderosa pines surround the campground. I put down the basket and run.
Sit on your doorstep, and the whole world will walk by. My therapist says. She wings like a moth.
I gallop to the edge of the forest and sit at the foot of the pines. Butterscotch. My final word. I scratch the sides of the tree to taste freedom before I freefall.
Waking up is a terrible force when unprepared. I do yoga to suspend the incomprehensible; I open with the sun, baited by breath. Boil water for coffee. Heat cream on the gas-top stove. Sit at the desk. Write. My method to reconcile the ungraspable, I tango with the muse, fingers tapdancing on the keyboard—breaking the quiet. I record sense impressions to decipher how I feel. Interpretation arrives a little later. I am a poet before the world wakes—my title shifts with the angle of light.
The constellations fade as I read my Yoga Horoscope, “Incident informs the arrangement…seek beauty in all forms and present the magnificence you acquire to the world.”
I am creating the container for my work. As bodies sleep, I gather remnants from the party. Remainders/reminders. The writer is the record of nostalgia. Perched on the periphery, I taste the sweetness of what has yet to be said.
